


Say You'll Stay With Me

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Pretty Woman (1990), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 63,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just supposed to be an ordinary business trip, but when John's car stalls out on Hollywood Boulevard, he meets someone who just might change his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Hollywood! What's your dream?

Sherlock groaned at the peppy music assaulting his eardrums before picking up his mobile--a burner, of course--and pressing the cancel button a little too hard. A night's sleep like that on a mattress like this was almost enough to send him crawling back to Mummy and Daddy in England, or worse, Mycroft. No, at least here out in the wilds of Los Angeles, it was interesting, and he had freedom of movement. 

Sherlock scrolled through his texts from the day. A couple of recent clients requested a repeat performance, but Sherlock would rather watch a serial crime drama. Another requested his appearance at a bachelor party. Could be interesting. He texted back, "Pay?" and swung himself out of bed.

He padded to the bathroom, vision blurred through an exaggerated yawn. A pair of black silk knickers, a gift from a client, hung to dry on the otherwise empty shower rod, and Sherlock snatched them down as he brushed his teeth. He took a whore's bath at the sink, not wishing to turn his body a ruddy orange from the rusted pipes in the bathtub. While many men in the neighborhood where he worked sported the fake tan look, Sherlock refused to do it. If a client didn't like what he had to offer, they could fuck off. Besides, if the client who gifted the knickers turned up, his flat had a fantastic shower.

So, Sherlock pulled them on, along with the matching garter belt, which he attached to fishnet stockings. And while the scuffed mid-calf Doc Martins, cut-offs, and artfully ripped black t-shirt weren't the client's favorites, they always worked well for other men that might show up. Add a thick studded black belt (as much for looks as self defense), smoky eyes, and artfully disheveled hair, and Sherlock was ready to face the night. He threw on a leather jacket that barely skimmed the tops of his hip bones (he knew where his assets were) and walked out the door. He didn't bother with the lock. There was nothing in there that anyone would want, and the lock was a flimsy piece of shit anyway.

He winked as he crossed paths with an upstairs neighbor, a young Neanderthal who liked to boast about female conquests but checked out Sherlock's arse every time they crossed paths. Not that Sherlock actually had any interest in sleeping with him. It was just so amusing to watch him wriggle on the hook.

"Hey fag," he barked. His attempt to lower the register of his voice was frankly sad.

Sherlock turned, shoved his hands in his jacket pocket, and shuffled through the foil packets found there. "Yes?"

"Landlord's looking for you." The lunk sneered like the revelation was supposed to be either unexpected or unhelpful.

Sherlock smirked. "Thanks for letting me know." He strolled back to his door, letting his fingers stroke down the man's arm as he went by. "Next time I see you, maybe we can discuss a discount."

Once Sherlock was back in his flat, he cursed to himself. Billy was supposed to pay the fucking rent. Sherlock had left his half of the past two months’ with Billy before he went to bed. Even if Billy didn't pay his half, that should have been enough to get the landlord off their backs. Sure, Billy had been the one to get them the place, even if it was only marginally better than living on the streets. But, Billy had a bit of a drugs habit, and he had stolen enough of Sherlock's money that any goodwill Sherlock had towards him was officially gone.

Luckily, Sherlock was smart enough to hide some of his money from Billy. If he had a good night, he would have enough to put down on a place that wasn't a complete dump. Sherlock shoved his bed away from the wall, unscrewed the heating register, and fished out the travel soap case attached with a magnet to the inside of the duct. But of course, the damn thing was empty. Stupid. Never underestimate the ingenuity of an addict.

Sherlock slammed the vent shut, stepped out the window, and scaled the fire escape to street level. He walked the several blocks to Billy's favorite club for both hustling and scoring, The Blue Banana. He thought that perhaps the walk might beat some of the ire out of him, but of course that didn’t happen. Not that he particularly wanted it to. The pulsing beat from the club flooded the pavement, and the line of men outside stared and then scowled as the bouncer let him pass.

Before walking through the door, Sherlock turned to the bouncer. "Have you seen Billy come in?"

The bouncer furrowed his brows, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Wiggins?"

"Oh. Yes. He's in the VIP lounge with Jim."

Fuck. Wasn't this just the cherry topping on the shit sundae? Sherlock took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor of the club. Past the landing, at the end of a short hallway stood a bouncer larger, stupider, and less friendly than the one at the front. Recent surgery on the left knee. Suspected girlfriend was cheating on him. He was right. That was an interesting strategy: a straight bouncer in a gay club. It made Sherlock's usual tactic useless. "I need to speak with Wiggins."

"Mr. Moriarty has asked not to be disturbed."

"I don't give a fuck about him. I need to speak to the roommate who stole my money."

The scowl on the bouncer's face deepened. "Mr. Moriarty has asked not to be disturbed."

Sherlock shrugged. "That's unfortunate, because Jim and I have been in negotiations of a certain form of employment. I'm sure you know what I mean. He's been pursuing me quite enthusiastically. I would hate to tell him of the bouncer who wouldn't grant me access to him."

With wide eyes, the bouncer responded, "Who should I say is calling?"

_Whom, you moron._ "Scott."

"Just a moment."

The bouncer disappeared behind the overly ornate door for a moment before reappearing, holding the door open for Sherlock. "Please come in."

Sherlock strolled through the door and into the lounge. A bored barman stood behind a counter, lazily rubbing a clean rag on a clean highball glass. Recently donated sperm to help a friend get pregnant. Regretting the decision.

A plain door guarded by another two men bookended the other side of the room, and two arced sofas dominated the center. Jim sat at the end of one, watching Billy kneeling before the sofa across, fellating a man Sherlock wished he had never met. A large window behind them flashed with neon advertising the beer selection of the bar across.

Jim perked up at the heavy footfalls of Sherlock's boots. "Scott! So lovely to see you. Please have a seat. I believe your friend is almost finished."

Sherlock stood right where he was.

"Come now, Scott. You don't want to be rude, do you?"

"Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? I'm here to talk to my flatmate. Nothing more."

"Pity. I was so hoping you had come to take up my offer."

Sherlock's fists clenched in his jacket pockets. "Nope."

Jim sighed dramatically and turned back to the show. The man on the couch had his fists clenched in Billy's hair. "That's it," he muttered, hips thrusting off the couch. "You take my cock, you little slut."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He knew Billy well enough to know that he could take any cock, any day, any time. It was a point of pride. Plus, from what Sherlock could see, the man was average size at best. However, if any client ever treated Sherlock like that, they'd be pissing blood for at least a week. Sherlock made his money based on skill, not on his willingness to be a glorified fleshlight. Besides the sheer disrespect, it would be a giant waste of money.

Finally, the man shuddered against Billy's face, Billy's nose pressed into furry pubic hair. Billy pulled back, but he sneezed before he could get all the way off. Sherlock couldn't quite stifle a laugh. That earned a scowl from the man on the couch, no doubt dealing with penile trauma and an appetizing mix of semen and mucus congealing in his pubic hair. Sherlock just smirked as he waited for Billy to unfold himself from the floor.

"Does anyone have a tissue?" Billy asked as he stood and shook out the pins and needles in his feet.

"Here you go, sweetheart," Jim offered. "There's someone here to see you."

Billy wiped his nose and turned to Sherlock. Fucker was high as a kite.

"Did you pay the rent, Billy?"

Billy shrugged, blowing his nose. "'S taken care of."

Sherlock pulled his lips over his teeth and bit down to avoid saying something truly awful, though he couldn't pinpoint why he should care. "Don't lie to me, Billy. You know it doesn't work. How much is left?"

Billy shook his head as he balled up the tissue and shoved it in his jeans pocket. "All gone."

Sherlock was going to literally kill him. "Any drugs you can give back?"

Billy shook his head. 

"We had a little party," Jim interjected. "He only owes three hundred more. I'd be happy to come to an arrangement with you to pay it off."

Sherlock's gaze snapped to Billy. "You spent eighteen hundred dollars on drugs?"

"Two thousand," Jim interjected again. "You walked in on him paying off the other two hundred. We gave him an excellent deal, if you ask me. I'd be willing to do something similar with you. Billy says you are much better than him at fellatio. I would be curious to see if you're worth the extra hundred. What do you think, Seb? One-to-one comparison?"

The man on the sofa shrugged. "Gimme twenty."

Sherlock snarled. "Come on, Billy. We're going."

Billy shuffled his way around the end of the sofa, then took tentative steps towards Sherlock. He wasn't sure whom to be more scared of. Good. Sherlock closed the distance between them with two long strides and grabbed him by the elbow.

Once Sherlock had Billy out the door and onto the staircase, Billy finally found the courage to wrench himself out of Sherlock's grip.

"Ow," he complained.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Billy shrugged and stumbled slowly down to the next step. "I needed a pick-me-up."

"And I needed a place to live with a flatmate that doesn't steal from me. Come on, let's get going. If you can stop acting like a complete idiot, maybe you can earn some of my money back."

"God, fine." Billy finally gathered enough consciousness to take the stairs at a semi-reasonable pace. "Moriarty's going to be so pissed at me. I don't know what he's going to do."

"Fuck him. You should be worried about what I’m going to do to you. Now let’s go get my money."

 


	2. No matter what they say, it's all about the money.

John stared out the picture window of the frankly ridiculous house at a Hollywood Hills sunset. Where did Harry find these places? It was so stuck in the eighties that John expected to find people snorting cocaine off one of the glass coffee tables when he went downstairs to join the party supposedly in his honor. Not that he was inclined to go downstairs when Mary had refused to fly to Los Angeles with him. Facing that party alone when he was just going to be inundated with questions about his missing mate or assaulted by job seekers was just not on.

For the first time since landing in LA that afternoon, John swiped past the lock screen of his personal cell phone. A text message lay in wait from Mary, but he didn't dare open it just yet. It was probably an angry text sent right after he left their flat for the airport. After a fight about their expectations of each other's time that almost made John late for his flight. Now that she had some time to think on it, it would be better to talk it out. He took a deep breath and tapped her name from his list of contacts.

"Well, well. Look who finally decides to call a girl," apparently passed for a hello.

"Good evening, Mary. I'm glad to hear your voice as well."

"I think you mean good night, John. It's two o'clock in the bloody morning here." No wonder he was so exhausted. "What do you want?"

"I was hoping I might convince you to come with me after all."

"Not happening."

"Mary, please. I need you here,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can have my PA get you tickets for the next flight out and call you with the details. We'll have plenty of time to spend together when you get here."

"That's just the thing, John. We live together, and I talk to your PA more than I talk to you. And we both know we won't have time to spend together unless you mean sitting through panels and keynotes I don't understand or being your arm candy at a million functions where you'll abandon me thirty seconds after we walk through the door. I have my own life and my own job, and I can't just jaunt off to LA at a moment's notice."

"I don't know what to tell you, Mary."

"Well, if you'd read your text messages, you'd already know. Congratulations, now it’s easy. By the time you get back, I'll have my stuff all moved out. I'd hate to get in your way."

John gritted his teeth. "That's very considerate of you."

"Goodbye, John. Have a nice trip."

John could hear the total silence that indicated a disconnected call, but he replied, "Goodbye, Mary," anyway before he slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Oh, joy.

John checked his suit in the warped reflection from the windows. Time to face the music. With any luck, he could sneak out before he would have to talk to anybody.

John tiptoed down the stairs, as well as one can in dress shoes, looking for an exit path with the fewest people along it. He found a relatively straight path towards a door at the end of the patio, the end of which had stepping stones down the hill to the makeshift parking lot. Plus, the path was full of faces he'd never seen before. No one to waylay him with stories of hairy surgeries they had performed or how they cured someone’s cancer with acupuncture, shared only with the hope of securing a position in one of John's practices. Especially since Harry decided to spread the news of the acquisition of a family practice in Santa Monica. Prematurely. No deal had been made, and the patriarch of the family seemed reluctant as hell.

He huffed. These things made him miss the desert. At least there he got some excitement sandwiched between all the interminable boredom.

John stepped hesitantly on the main floor and then attempted to stride through the crowd, putting on his best 'I am not here to mingle' face. However, his speedy escape was not meant to be, for he spotted Sarah only a few yards from the stairs, and she called out to him as he passed.

John put on his best happy-surprised face and spun to face her. "Sarah, I had no idea you would be here today. What brings you?"

Sarah gave him a warm smile. It seemed genuine enough, but John couldn't help but resent it a bit. "My husband got a job at Pepperdine, so we moved down. When I heard John Watson would be around, how could I resist?"

John wrapped his hand around hers and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'm glad to hear it. Have you found a practice here?"

"I'm working pediatrics in the obstetrics wing of the hospital."

"A bit different from your practice in England."

Sarah chuckled. God, she looked so happy. "True, but I love it. I never had your ambition. I hated the business side of my job, and how can you complain about a career that lets you cuddle babies all day?"

"I'm glad you're doing well."

"Thank you," she replied with a shy smile, tucking a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "I haven't even asked how you are. I'm guessing business is good."

"It's all right, I suppose."

Sarah chuckled as she patted John on the arm. "That's right, it never did go well enough for you, did it?"

John blanched, but then she couldn't know what that same old conflict had wrought just minutes ago. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"When we were dating, did you talk to my PA more than me?"

Sarah's face looked like she had just spotted an injured puppy. "John, she was one of my bridesmaids."

"Ah.” He took a moment. “Well, it's been lovely, but I need to be going."

"Oh John, I didn't mean to--"

"No. Of course not. It's not… It's the middle of the night for me, and I have a lot of work to do before bed. I can't use all my energy on schmoozing for pleasure instead of business. Really, Sarah, I'm very happy for you. I should be in town more often if everything goes to plan. Maybe we'll see each other soon."

John gave one last pat on Sarah's shoulder as he rushed for the door. Though he noticed a few eyes on him, the only sober purposeful member of a tipsy milling party, he was soon out the door and climbing down the hill of stepping stones. As he stepped on the gravel pathway on the bottom of the hill, he heard someone call after him, but he was close enough to the group of drivers shooting the shit that he felt confident he could get out of the party without being delayed again.

"Mike, you ready to go?" John called.

"I would be, but the car's blocked in."

"Aw, Mike, I know you're a great driver. Surely there is some way you can get us out of here."

"Sorry, boss." Mike pointed into the sea of cars. "Ours is right in the middle."

"Shit." John wiped a hand over his mouth, searching the sea of cars. For what, he didn't quite know.

"John," panted a voice behind him.

John spun around, dreading another encounter with a former lover or doctor vying for a job, but, "Harry! Just the person I wanted to see."

"You're not leaving are you? Everyone's waiting to see you."

John cocked his head and his eyebrows. "No, they're really not."

"Sure they are. And even if they’re not, it’s good for business."

“Where's your car?"

Harry pointed to a silver-grey convertible on the perimeter. "Over there. Why?"

"Perfect." John held out his hand as he stood on his toes to get a better look at the car. "Give me your keys. Hey Mike? Luggage in the car?"

"Yes, sir. Would you like me to get it for you?"

"Please." John turned back to Harry. "Will the boot even fit my luggage? Where are the keys?"

"Why do you even need them?"

"Mike's blocked in." John pointed his thumb back and held out his palm.

Harry scoffed. "You're not getting my keys. You've never driven in the states before."

"Need I remind you that I'm paying you to be here? That I'm paying for the rental on that ridiculous car?"

Harry groaned, but she dug into her pocket all the same. "Just take it easy. Do you even know how to drive a manual?"

How hard could it be? "Of course."

Harry dropped the key in John's hand, and he jogged over to the car with Harry on his heels. As he popped the boot for Mike, he saw that it definitely didn't have room for his luggage. "Why do you feel the need to rent these useless vehicles?" he muttered before yelling, "Mike? Just the overnight bag, briefcase, and coat, all right?"

Mike nodded and pulled the items from the boot.

"And how am I getting home?" asked Harry.

"Mike can take you to your car. Do you mind, Mike?"

Mike dropped the briefcase and bag into the trunk and handed John his coat. "Of course not."

"Great. I'll drop the key at the front desk. And Mike, if you'll do the same with my luggage, they can bring it up to me. Is that suitable for everyone?"

"Of course,” said Mike.

"Fine," Harry replied at the same time.

"Great. I'll see you both tomorrow." John pressed unlock on the fob.

"Do you even know where you're going?" Harry asked.

"I have satnav on my mobile. I'll be fine." He opened the right-side door and immediately closed it again. "Other side," he murmured as he crossed to the driver's side. He got in, started the car, and with a minimal struggle, got the car into first gear and took off towards downtown LA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, maybe I should stop apologizing for posting things late. It's become an integral part of my personality. That being said, sorry this is a day late. My goal is to post a chapter every Friday. 221b Con may throw a wrench in the works for next week, but I'll do my best.
> 
> As always, many thanks to my betas angiefsutton, iamjohnlocked4life, and monikakrasnorada for the beta. If you'd like to be tagged on Tumblr when the story updates, please let me know.


	3. I can do whatever I want, baby. I ain't lost.

"I'm hungry. You got any money?" Billy asked mere steps away from the club's exit.

Sherlock watched him with undisguised contempt as he waited for the pieces to fall into place.

"Oh." Billy rubbed the back of his neck. "Right."

Sherlock fished a cigarette out of a crushed soft pack but stopped when he spotted a couple of middle-aged tourists paying more attention to the neon lights than where they were going. He pocketed the pack, slipped the dislodged cigarette behind his ear, and murmured from the corner of his mouth, "Don't get in the way."

Sherlock changed his trajectory, walking casually down the pavement straight toward the gap between husband and wife. Husband just got a promotion. Traveling to celebrate. True to form, they didn't notice Sherlock until his shoulder jammed into the husband's clavicle. Sherlock pulled the wallet from the husband's back pocket and stuffed it into his jacket pocket as he spun around.

"Oi! Watch where you're going," he yelled as he backed away, putting on a careful air of disaffected indignation. They didn't look back at him: just shook their heads and muttered about how disrespectful kids are these days.

Once the tourists were out of sight, Sherlock pulled all the cash from the wallet--four twenties and a few ones--and tossed the rest. Billy's eyes went wide, and he rushed back to the bin, trying to see past the protective barrier into the liner.

"What did you throw it away for?"

Sherlock pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. As he blew out the first drag, he said, "I don't do identity theft. Do you want to eat or don't you?"

"Yeah," Billy finally abandoned the rubbish. "Yeah, I do."

Sherlock handed him one of the twenties. "I'll see you at the usual place. Get me a pack of smokes. Camel menthols."

A few minutes later, Sherlock perched between the storefronts of a pawn shop and a Titlemax, watching the cars drive past. He started another cigarette, sucking suggestively at the filter while making eye contact with passers by. Not much foot traffic. It must have been the weather. While mild by English standards, it was downright frigid to Southern Californians.

A minivan pulled up and rolled down their passenger window, but once Sherlock pushed off the wall, he could tell this was not the one for him. The man was married with three kids, and this was obviously the car most often used to cart said kids around. And while he might have reservations about doing married men, normally that didn't stop him. However, the car smelled like French fries and sour milk, and the man had the sallow skin and brittle hair indicative of a terrible diet. He was sure to smell terrible and would likely fart while Sherlock's face was buried in his crotch.

Sherlock leaned against his right hand on the car's window frame. "None for me, thanks. But if you'd like to wait, my partner should be here any minute."

Alas, no chance to wither an entitled arse or get a bit of revenge on Billy. Instead of waiting or bitching, the man with the van simply drove away. The van stopped at the light at the end of the block, revealing a handful of bumper stickers espousing family values and how proud they are that all children are honored at their school. Sherlock chuckled.

As he spun around, he spotted Billy settling into their spot, munching on a hot dog. He tossed the requested pack to Sherlock. "Any luck so far?"

"You just missed a charming gentleman."

"You let him go?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not my type."

"You need to be less picky if you're ever going to make a living at this."

"I do just fine."

Billy snorted and Sherlock scowled. He knew the maths. Sure, Billy had let Sherlock move into his flat three months ago. At the time, it was a lifesaver, but now? Now he had a solid enough client base and good enough word of mouth that he should be able to afford a place of his own, even if it was just as crappy. That was, if his flatmate would stop fucking stealing from him. Ah, the catch-22.

"Are you sure you don't want to be one of Mr. Moriarty's escorts? The money's supposed to be fantastic."

"Sure, until he takes most of it."

"Come on, Scott. I need you to do this. He won't take me on unless I bring you with me."

Sherlock ripped open his new pack of Camels. "No. I won't have someone making decisions for me. I decide who. I set the price, and I keep the schedule I want. You should have seen me in New York. I was making money hand over fist, if you’ll excuse the expression. I had a nice flat with nice things, and I didn’t have to work all night every night to pay for them."

“If New York was so great, why did you leave?”

“Necessity.”

Instead of the inevitable third-degree that Sherlock expected, Billy whistled long and low. He poked Sherlock in the ribs. “Check it out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was sure not to live up to what Billy thought it was. However, when Sherlock turned around, he had to admit that what he saw--or more specifically, what he heard--did have its intrigue. An F-type Jaguar convertible was indeed rare in the part of town, but it certainly wasn’t unheard of. However, this was a slate grey rather than the usual flashy red. Even that wasn’t what piqued Sherlock’s interest: it was the choppy acceleration coupled with the grinding of gears. That meant it was a brand new 2016 model. Earlier models didn’t have manual transmissions.

That left several possible explanations. It could be stolen, but a car thief who would go after a car like that would know how to drive it. It could be hired, but Sherlock couldn’t imagine an agency would let go of a new, rare luxury car without verifying the customer could drive it. Most likely, it was purchased as a means of conspicuous consumption, and ended up being more than the driver could handle. He’d have to get a closer look to make sure. The encounter could be promising depending on the man behind the wheel, but even if it was another boring one, it would pay well.

As the car stopped, grinded, lurch forward, and died, Billy made his move. Sherlock put out his arm to keep Billy back. “This one’s mine.”

Billy huffed, as if he could mount any protest. “Fine. Text me when you’re finished.”

Sherlock stuffed the pack of Camels into his jacket and shrugged it off. As he sauntered over, the gears continued to grind. Sherlock chuckled. He rapped on the passenger window.

The handsome man inside winced, but he rolled down the window. Sherlock was surprised to see not a bit of flash in his attire--a fine but sensible suit, plain white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and a striped tie balled up in the cup holder. He looked completely sober, if exhausted, and his hands, posture, worry lines, and haircut told Sherlock that he was an administrator, most likely in a medical field, and he used to be in the military. Certainly not in a combat job, as he barely knew how to drive.

Sherlock leaned down and propped his elbows on the bottom window frame. “You really shouldn’t treat your tie like that.”

“Sorry?” Ah, English. Not that Sherlock was surprised, but it was nice to hear a familiar accent.

“Your tie.” Sherlock pointed. “You don’t want it to get wrinkled, do you?”

“I’m sorry, did you stop me just to point out that I’m abusing my tie?”

“No, I thought you might like some company.”

“No,” the man chuckled. “Thank you. I’m just trying to get this damn car to my hotel.”

“Having a bit of trouble?”

The man tried to force the car into first gear then threw up his hands. “You tell me.”

“You know, I could help you with that.”

The man finally focused on Sherlock, eyes flicking down to his throat before aligning back with Sherlock’s gaze. “I’m sure you could,” he sighed as he turned his face back to the road.

That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed. He could play this man like a violin. "Here," he offered as he ducked into the car. He sat and closed the door, wrapping his fingers over the stick shift. "Push down the clutch. All the way."

Sherlock put the car in first with one decisive flick of the wrist. The man smiled, glancing at Sherlock before looking away again. "Thanks."

"I know how to work a stick."

The man swallowed. He licked his lips, tongue darting out and dragging over his bottom lip.

After a minute of silence, Sherlock interjected, "This would be the point at which you start the car."

"Right." He turned the key. "Right."

"Well--" Sherlock pulled the door handle "--if there's nothing else."

The man bit his bottom lip, staring resolutely out the windshield, though his gaze darted to Sherlock's thigh as Sherlock opened the car door. "Thanks for your help."

"If you decide you need anything else, you know where to find me," Sherlock offered as he stepped out of the car, arse trailing behind him.

"Wait," the man blurted. Ah yes, there it was. Sherlock rounded with a coy smile. "Do you know how to get to Sixty Hotel?"

That wasn't quite the reaction Sherlock was looking for. This man was just full of surprises. But maybe there was still hope. "I do."

"Could you give me directions?"

"Sure. Twenty bucks."

"What, seriously?"

"Yes. Consider it compensation for my time. You're keeping me from paying customers."

"I didn't come here to pick up a prostitute." The man's fist clenched over the shifter.

"That's not my problem." At that, Sherlock stood straight, letting the garters and tight shorts do the rest of the talking.

"Fine."

Sherlock climbed back into the car as the man fished out his wallet.

"Do you have change for a fifty?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied as he snatched the note and slipped into his back pocket. "Take a right at the next light."

They rode on, Sherlock occasionally wrapping his hand over his reluctant client’s to get the car into the correct gear. The red hue that rose and fell on his cheeks was quite satisfying. But, after a few minutes where the only sounds were Sherlock’s perfunctory instructions, grating gears, and quiet curses, something had to give.

“Pull over,” Sherlock instructed.

The man pulled over but asked, “What? Why?”

“I can’t stand to sit here and listen to you destroy your transmission any longer.” Sherlock flung open the door and swung his legs out.

“Whoa--” the man placed his fingers over Sherlock’s elbow “--you’re not taking my money and leaving me God know’s where.”

“You’re right. I’m not. Switch places with me.”

“Oh, no. I am not letting you drive.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really think I could do worse?”

“And how am I to know that you won’t just drive off without me?”

Sherlock smirked. “I’d offer you collateral, but I’m afraid I don’t have much besides the clothes on my back. Would you like me to take them off?”

Sherlock gripped the hem of his shirt, but the man’s hand flew out to stop him.

“No!” he shouted. He swallowed, his jaw clenching, and after a moment, he let go, watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye. “All right. But I swear, if you do anything to this car, I will call the cops.”

“That would be a very poor decision, doctor,” Sherlock replied as he stepped onto the pavement. He heard the beginning of a “how” from his doctor friend, but he was crossing in front of the car before the man could get out his question. He was still staring when Sherlock opened the driver’s side door. “Don’t forget to put it in neutral before you get out.”

“Right.” The man’s hand hovered above the gear shift, unsure of what to do.

“Oh for God’s sake.” Sherlock leaned over the man to take the car out of gear and pull up the parking brake. “There,” he finished as he stood, pleased to see a startled look frozen on the man’s face, complete with dilated pupils and accelerated breathing.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, the man cleared his throat. “Thanks. I’ll just.” He pointed forwards and made his way around the car. Sherlock smirked. Maybe this was going to go well after all.

Once the man was buckled into the passenger seat, Sherlock asked, “Ready?”

The man nodded, and Sherlock smirked, a chuckle threatening to bubble to the surface. Time to show this bloke what his car was really capable of. After working tension from his neck and shoulders, Sherlock threw the car into first and popped the clutch, narrowly avoiding squealing tires as they sped away.

“Shit,” the man cursed, more of a forced breath than anything. Sherlock glanced over, watching in metered snapshots as the man eased his grip on the car and began to smile. Sherlock weaved in and out of Beverly Hills traffic, knitting a minimalist tapestry of the subdivision. Finally, once Sherlock had managed to eke a laugh from the doctor, he fell in line with the traffic.

“Having fun?”

“Yes, that was”--he swallowed, pushed himself up in the chair--“that was good.”

“I told you I could work a stick.”

The man didn’t reply. As Sherlock peeked over, he found the man staring out the windshield, rubbing his thumb back and forth against his bottom lip. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Sherlock returned.

“What’s your name?”

“Whatever you want it to be.”

“No, I’m not playing that game.”

“Fine. What’s your name, then?”

“John.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“What?” His brows furrowed. “Oh. No. Really, my name is John. Do you want to see my passport?”

Interesting. He was actually insulted that Sherlock didn’t believe him. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Good.” John tugged down his suit jacket and smoothed his palms down the front. “Your turn.”

“Scott.”

“That’s not your real name, is it.”

Sherlock slowed, signalling for the turn into the hotel entrance. “It’s the closest you’re going to get.”

John jutted out his chin, nodding. “Fair enough. Would you mind popping the boot?” he asked as Sherlock shut off the engine.

“Of course.” Sherlock pulled the lever as he leaned over to grab his jacket from the passenger side floor. Once he was out of the car and into his jacket, he tossed the keys to a valet with a wink, earning him an agape stare. He smirked and sauntered away to where John was pulling his luggage from the trunk. “Don’t they have people who will do that for you? I thought this place was posh.”

John nodded towards the valet still contemplating the keys. “I think you distracted him.”

“I usually do.”

“Well,” John began, draping his coat over one arm and offering the other for a handshake. “Thank you for your help.”

Sherlock took it, a bit taken aback that he wasn’t being asked up. “Of course.” But as he turned to walk away, a thought occured. “Do you have a pen?”

“I should.” John pulled one from an outer pocket of his briefcase. “Why?”

Sherlock snatched up the pen and grabbed John’s right hand, scribbling down the number to his mobile. Handing the pen back, he said, “In case you change your mind.”

John’s hand dropped limply to his side, and with one final wink, Sherlock strode away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check it out. I got it posted on time! Go me! :D
> 
> Many thanks to my betas once again: angiefsutton, iamjohnlocked4life, and monikakrasnorada.


	4. Oooh, the penthouse

John stared at the spiky scrawl of numbers across his palm until the dazed valet finally interrupted his reverie with a, “May I take that for you, sir?”

“Of course,” John blurted, handing off his overnight bag and briefcase. “I’ll be just a moment.”

This was crazy, he thought, even as he strode towards the street. But God, the man who was ostensibly Scott was beautiful. And thrilling in a way that John couldn’t quite define. He oozed sex from every pore, and although John knew for certain it was an act, he got caught up in it. But, there was something else. He didn’t just make a lucky guess that John was a doctor. Everything that could have revealed his occupation had been locked up in the trunk.

He had to know how Scott figured him out, or so he convinced himself as he looked up and down the street. Finally, he spotted a street-light-silhouetted figure perched at a bus stop. A flare of firelight illuminated his face, making his eyes and cheekbones stand out in sharp contrast. It was soon replaced by a small red glow that John used as a beacon to traverse the half block to the stop.

Before John could make his presence known, Scott’s torso spun towards him. He leaned his head back to blow a plume of smoke from his mouth, the tendons in his neck straining, before speaking. “Hello again, John.”

“Hello.” John leaned against the top of the bench a few feet from Scott. He watched his thumb tap against the metal before looking up. “Just out of curiosity, how much does someone like you make?”

“It varies, but you should know; I’m expensive for my real estate.”

“How expensive, exactly?”

Scott took another drag from his cigarette, illuminating his features enough to reveal thoughtful eyes. “Two hundred.”

John cleared his throat. “For what time period?”

“An hour.”

John bit his lips, pondering. But, who was he kidding? “Would you like to come up?”

Scott didn’t give an answer right away, preferring to breathe in more smoke and scrutinize. His eyelids narrowed, and his features slowly morphed into a smirk. Finally, he hopped off the bench, dropped his cigarette on the pavement, and grinded it out with his heel. “Lead the way.”

John’s heart thudded in his chest, and blood rushed in his ears, blocking out all sound except the heavy footfalls of the man behind him. He followed so closely that John could feel his presence prickling against his left shoulder. As his feet carried him back to the entrance, he still had no idea what he was doing. Was he really taking a prostitute up to his hotel room? To do what exactly? Because, while he would admit that he found Scott very attractive, he couldn’t determine whether he actually intended to have sex with the lad.

If they had met in a bar or something, John would have never even thought to approach him. He was too gorgeous, too confident, too graceful. Even in those heavy boots, his movements were smooth, lithe, fluid. The slice across the back of his t-shirt and the frayed cut-offs that barely contained his arse somehow only magnified his poise instead of detracting from it. John could see every muscle of the back of Scott’s body flex and contract as he had climbed in and out of the car, as he’d sat silhouetted at the bus stop. John ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a long breath. He had to get it together. The staff would be talking about them enough without John strolling through the door with a prominent erection. And dear God, this bloke had to be half John’s age, and that just made him feel like a pervert twice over.

He spun on Scott. “Here,” he offered, holding out his coat.

Scott took it and threw it over his shoulders, but he taunted, “Ashamed of me, doctor?”

“It’s not that. I--” John deflated. The whole of Scott’s body challenged John to say it out loud. “I would just rather not bring attention to myself, all right?”

Scott bowed dramatically. “I am here to serve.” As he stood, his mouth quirked into a momentary smile. He pulled his arms through the sleeves. “Well, service.”

John chuckled, but the laugh quickly died away. God, he felt guilty, but at this point, he would feel guiltier if he sent Scott away. So, he spun on his heel and marched into the hotel lobby, head held high.

It was a great comfort to him upon entering that the lobby was relatively small. Or, he realized once his elbows hit the raised counter of the front desk, cordoned off. He could spot a sliver of a sitting area with a small bar to the right and a larger bar advertising itself as Caulfield’s Bar and Dining Room to the left. John ran his hand over the smooth, creamy marble of the desk as Scott sidled up to his left. He stood out in sharp contrast to his surroundings, even if one were to not take his attire into account. Everything about the lobby was dark and soft and round while Scott was all milky skin and sharp cheekbones and jutting hip bones.

Scott propped an elbow on the front desk while they waited for the clerk to finish a phone call. The coat may have been a bad idea. While it skimmed the knee on John, it fell only a couple of inches below Scott’s shorts, which only made him look more naked than before. His garters and the top of his stockings peeked out from under the hem, and each discrete movement shuffled the fabric against him, giving extra glimpses of smooth skin and elastic lace. John wondered how the silk felt against Scott’s thighs and found himself wanting to slide his fingers underneath the hem, feel soft skin on his fingertips and cool silk on the back of his hand.

Scott cleared his throat.

As John looked up, Scott nodded towards the check-in area. “Oh.” He faced the counter and pulled out his wallet, taking care not to notice the drag of wool on wool. “I have a reservation under John Watson.”

“Of course, Mr. Watson. Give me just a moment to pull up the reservation.”

“It’s Dr. Watson,” Scott corrected, running his fingers through John’s hair. John chuckled as he ducked away.

The clerk glanced back and forth between the two of them and the computer screen, smile carefully constructed on her face. “Yes, I see that in your reservation. My apologies.”

As she began coding a keycard, John replied, “Please don’t apologize.”

“Oh. Of course. Sorry. I have that you reserved the penthouse. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. If I could just see a credit card and some ID.”

John pulled out his credit card, tapped it on the desk. “Shit. My passport is in my briefcase, but I believe the porter already took it up to the room.”

“Oh that’s all right.” She took the proffered card. “We can go ahead and check you in, but please bring it by in the morning. Otherwise”--she swiped the card--“we’ll have to have you arrested for fraud.”

She chuckled at her joke but quickly shriveled at the lack of response. Clearing her throat, she continued, “If you’ll just sign here.”

“Thank you.” John signed the slip and handed it back. He slid his card back into his wallet.

“Now”--she cleared her throat again--“I show your reservation is for one occupant. Would you like me to update it for you?”

Scott chuckled under his breath.

“No,” John insisted. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

“Very well. Enjoy your stay, and please let me know if you need anything.” She placed the keycard on the counter.

“Actually, yes. Could you please tell the valet that my sister--her name’s Harry Watson--will be coming by soon to pick up the car. The rest of my luggage should arrive at the same time. Just hold it for me. I’ll let you know when I need it.”

“Of course, sir.”

John started to walk away but stopped short. “Oh, and could you please send up a bottle of scotch and some ice?”

“Certainly.”

“Thank you.”

John could hear a low chuckle bubbling in Scott’s throat as he followed John to the lift. He had gone crazy. That was the only explanation. All the stress had made him snap. For all he knew, Scott was just an hallucination representing all his repressed desires. He was certainly too perfect in that regard to be anything else.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his fingers along his eyebrows as he pressed the button for the lift. God, he was so tired he was seeing stars, and he still had contracts to go over for the morning. He punched the button again. Perhaps if the sheer force of will was strong enough, the fucking thing would actually get here. He stretched his neck and tapped his heel, but as he reached again for the button, he was stopped short by fingers on his shoulders. The fingers squeezed tight muscles. Heels of hands rubbed circles against knots. As Scott worked his way across John’s shoulder blades, John felt the fabric of his coat brush his back.

John teetered on his feet before letting himself lean into the man behind him. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“It’s a classic crossover, is it not?”

John hummed. “That still doesn’t answer my question.”

“Let’s just say I’m well versed in anatomy.”

“I bet,” John said around a chuckle, brought back to awareness of his surroundings by a ding.

“Ah, the lift is here,” Scott announced, sauntering through the parted doors. An older couple waited a few feet away, looking uncomfortable. John gestured for them to go first, but their heads quivered from side to side.

“Have a good evening,” John said with an embarrassed nod as he stepped onto the lift. He pushed the button for the penthouse and slid his keycard through the reader when it beeped at him. Once the doors were closed, he asked, “How long had the couple been there?”

Scott shrugged, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Not long.”

“Oh, God.” John hid his face in his hands and shook his head, but a laugh quickly bubbled up. “This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded a country.”

John was agog. “How do you keep doing that?”

Scott waved it away. “It’s nothing.”

“No really. Tell me.”

Scott pressed his lips together, assessing. He looked over John’s face to each tiny aspect of his expression. Finally, though his face still expressed reluctance, he took a deep breath. “Your haircut and posture as well as the permanent discoloration of the skin on your face and neck--I can see the change in pigment under your collar--indicate that you were in the military. However, you can’t drive--”

“Hey--”

“So you couldn’t have been in a combat job. However, you favor your right foot when you walk, but you stood evenly on both feet when we were at the counter and waiting for the lift. Which would indicate that the limp is at least partly psychosomatic, so the origins of it must have been traumatic. Therefore, it must have been sustained abroad. As for figuring out you’re a doctor, I must admit it was a lucky guess. But, judging by the cost and style of your dress and the neighborhood where you’re staying, I could fairly safely assume that you are here to attend the osteopathic medicine conference. So, you must have been an army doctor, probably a surgeon, because the army wouldn’t have invalided out a GP for a limp and a slight hand tremor. You haven’t been able to perform surgery since, and even a successful surgeon would have trouble affording the car you drive and the penthouse of this hotel. Therefore, you must be an administrator rather than currently practicing medicine.”

“Wow.” John shook his head in awe as the lift doors opened. Scott studied his own fingers pushing back the cuticle on his thumb. “That was incredible.”

Scott eyed John sideways. “Do you think so?”

“Yes, extraordinary.” He held the lift open for Scott. “Absolutely extraordinary.”

Scott eyelids fluttered for a concerning amount of time. As Scott finally walked through the doors, he said, “That’s not what people normally say.”

John followed, and the doors whisked closed behind him. “What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas kylaraingress, iamjohnlocked4life, and monikakrasnorada.
> 
> I apologize for the delay in posting. Con drop, ya know? Also, I just want to say that I know I'm terrible about replying to comments. I'm sure those of you who have followed my fics for a while already know this, but I do want everyone to know that I really appreciate the comments you leave. They're like ambrosia to my spirit.


	5. Let Me Give You a Tip

John followed Scott to the door and waited for a ridiculous moment before remembering he had the key. Scott crowded into his personal space, coat still beckoning to be opened. At the feel of Scott's breath on his ear, goose pimples raised on his neck, prickling their way down his spine. He just wished he knew how much of the heavy come-on was an act and how much was based on any level of attraction.

"Home sweet home," John muttered, pushing the door open and walking through with Scott trailing behind him. "Pardon me a moment."

John heard the door latch behind him as he hurried past the sitting room and dining area into the bedroom. His overnight bag sat at the foot of the bed, and his briefcase stood on the desk nearby. After he shrugged out of his blazer, John opened the briefcase and fished out the extra cash hidden inside. Scott still milled in the sitting room, so John hollered, "I'm assuming cash is your preferred method of payment."

"Mm," Scott grunted. "Do you mind if I have a smoke on the balcony?"

John came back into the sitting room, where Scott was pulling John's coat from his shoulders. "I don't know wheth-- No, that's all right. Is there an ashtray?"

"No," Scott replied as he pulled a cigarette from the pack. "But you won't mind if I get a little naughty, will you?"

John grunted what could be interpreted as a laugh, a crooked smile pulling at his features. As Scott walked--no, slinked--towards John, wrapping his lips around the filter of the cigarette, he held out his palm. For one hysterical moment John thought Scott wanted to hold his hand or lead him somewhere. Until, that was, Scott pointed at the cash pinched between John’s fingers. John handed it over, and Scott slid it into the front of his shorts with a wink, spinning and sauntering to the balcony. God, John was in trouble. And so fucking tired.

He slumped into the sofa. The snap of a lighter and a whiff of smoke floated into the room. Yawning, John pulled his mobile from his pocket and scrolled through his emails. After rattling off a reply that needed immediate attention, he switched over to his text messages. Luckily, there was just the one, Harry telling him to let her know when he arrived.

_I’m here. Your car is in one piece._ John’s finger hovered over the send button, but he just had to type one more thing. _Shit, that thing can maneuver._

He tossed the phone on the table and leaned back with a sigh. He laughed in short, quiet bursts, his eyelids floating up and down. His phone chimed. His hand had almost reached it when he heard from behind him, “Have you figured out what you want yet?”

John slumped back down, rocked his head to face Scott. “What do you do?”

“Everything. But I don’t kiss on the mouth.”

John blinked, his already addled mind stuttering to a complete stop at the word _everything_.

“Well?” Scott asked.

John flinched. “I haven’t the slightest.” He yawned. “This was a bit spur of the moment. To put it lightly.”

“You’ve never done this before.” Scott flicked his finished cigarette over the balcony rail.

“Done what? Slept with a man?”

Scott shook his head as he crossed the threshold into the room. “Picked up a prostitute.”

John chuckled, the pitch rising higher than he expected. “What was the giveaway?”

Scott hiked a leg over one of John’s and sat on the coffee table, and John traced the outline of Scott’s patella through his stockings. The texture felt nice, each individual strand soft and silky but different from the skin underneath. John sighed as he closed his eyes, laid his palm over Scott’s knee.

“Just relax,” he heard as he felt hands tugging at his belt, heard the jingle of his belt buckle moving. “I’ll take care of everything.”

John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Even as Scott hands raised goosebumps on his abdomen, as fingers dragging down the zip of his trousers caused a flush to race to his groin, John felt like a skittish puppy. Now that the reality of the situation was staring him in the face--or rather, crotch--he felt in over his head.

Scott settled his palm over John’s bollocks and slid his hand up, fingers tickling at his skin. He folded back the flaps of John’s trousers. John’s breath was heavy and erratic, though from nerves or arousal, he didn’t know. Thankfully, or cursedly, just as Scott’s fingers teased at the waistband of John’s pants, a knock interrupted them.

“That’s the scotch,” John announced, launching himself off the sofa. He hurried to the door, and before opening it, arranged himself back into his trousers and took a note from his wallet. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

“Good evening, sir,” the porter said.

“Good evening,” John replied, taking the tray and stuffing ten dollars into the porter’s hand. “Thank you.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and blew out a long huff of air. He walked the scotch to the dining table situated just behind Scott, setting the tray on the table with only a minimal amount of shaking. He stared at the bottle, at his hands still gripping the edge of the tray. 

“I need a drink,” he finally announced. “Would you like one?”

Scott threw his legs out, pushed himself up on his knees, and huffed before coming around to the table. He flipped over one of the glasses on the tray and pulled a wet cube from the ice bucket. He dropped it in the glass and licked the water from his fingers. “I might like a finger or two, but I’ll take as many as you want to give me.”

No matter how many times Scott said things like that, it stopped John’s heart, trapping him in suspended animation for a moment before he crashed back to earth. He ripped the foil from the top and pulled the cork with a loud pop, sending a subtle odor of caramel and smoke into the air. 

“Look,” John said as he poured neat for himself and over the ice cube for Scott. “Could we lose the innuendo for awhile? Just relax and talk for a bit?”

Scott shrugged as he swirled the scotch in his glass. “It’s your money, but we are on a timetable.”

“All right,” John nodded, taking a long sip, relishing the alcohol burn in his throat. He set the glass down on the table and watched the liquid spiral as he traced glass circles on the table. He didn’t cotton to Scott leaving that soon. “What would it take for you to stop worrying about the time?”

John didn’t look up as Scott apparently considered the offer. “Six hundred,” he finally proposed.

“Additional or total?”

“Additional.”

Sipping from his scotch, John finally met Scott’s eyes. Eyes like liquid mercury. “Very well. I’ll just go get your money.”

John carried his scotch back to the bedroom and his briefcase. He pulled the requisite cash and turned to find Scott standing in the doorway, watching him avidly. 

“What?” John asked as he walked back.

“You’re an odd one, Dr. Watson.” Scott took the money and slipped it this time into his jacket pocket.

“I thought this was supposed to happen a lot. Clients who just want to talk.”

“Not to me.”

“Oh.” They watched each other for a moment before Scott turned away, peeling off his jacket.

“I suppose if I’m staying for a while, I might as well get comfortable.” He threw his jacket over the back of a chaise lounge by the window and sat, working loose the ties of his boots. As he wriggled a boot free from his foot, he continued, “So what do you want to talk about?”

John shrugged, setting down his glass and propping himself on the back of one of the chairs. “Actually, if it’s all right, I need to get some work done.”

Scott stopped tugging at his other boot. “If we aren’t going to fuck, and we aren't going to talk, what am I doing here?”

“I don’t know.” John ran a hand over his face. 

Huffing, Scott lunged towards his jacket, pulling a folded piece of paper from one of its apparently endless pockets. He flipped it towards John. "Here."

John picked up the paper and unfolded it.

"I'm clean, and I'm careful. As you can see, that panel is only two weeks old. I get tested every month."

A puff of air escaped John's nose. “Thanks," he said, tossing it back. "But that's not actually my concern. I suppose I just like your company.”

Scott rolled his eyes as he tucked away the paper and resumed taking off his boot. “It’s my job to lie about how much I like you. Not the other way around.”

John laughed, looked down at his hands. “I’m not lying.”

“Oh.” Scott set aside his boots and waited.

After too long, John said, “Well, I’m going to work at the coffee table in the bedroom. You’re welcome to join me if you’d like. There’s a TV, and I saw a few books in there, too. Feel free to have whatever you want from the minibar or more of the scotch. If you want to order something from the pay per view, that’s fine. Just, no pornography, please.” John nodded, peering around the room. “Yeah, I think that covers it.”

“What about the shower?”

“Oh, of course. The website said there were complimentary dressing gowns in there, too.”

“Fancy.” He smirked.

John felt an inexplicable desire to give Scott a peck on the lips before retiring to the bedroom, but he shook it away. He let a single breathy chuckle escape before he turned on his heel and retreated. As he walked, he undid the buttons on his cuffs and rolled them up before popping open the second button on his shirt. He toed off his shoes, brushing the day’s dirt off them before storing them at the bottom of the provided wardrobe. Finally, he slipped off his belt, rolled it up, and stowed it in a drawer. As he closed it up and retrieved his briefcase, he could hear Scott milling around in the sitting room, going to the kitchen and opening cabinets and drawers.

Given the stereotype, John wondered if he should be worried that Scott was looking for things to steal, but he shrugged it off. Plus, anything that John cared about being stolen was in the room with him. So, he opened the clasp to the briefcase and let the thick contract hit the table with a thud. Down to business.

A few minutes into marking up the contract, John spotted Sherlock circling around the sitting area in the bedroom, water bottle and a handful of snacks in tow. He tossed them on the bed and grabbed the remote before hopping onto the bed, which he did by hooking the toes of one foot on the bed frame and simply stepping up to the mattress. An impressive feat. Not that John was watching. Well, he may have glanced.

Next, John heard a long series of squeaking springs and looked back up to find Scott sitting in the middle of the bed, legs spread in a wide vee and his right elbow propped on his right knee as he waited for the television to fire up. John prided himself that he didn’t get too distracted by the crinkle of foil wrappers or the occasional shouts of, “Wrong!” at the telly. However, after a long bout of silence, John looked up at the sound of foil ripping. Two of Scott’s fingers were buried in a long skinny bag, fishing out contents. As he popped whatever they were into his mouth, he turned to John and tipped the bag in his direction. 

“Wasabi pea?”

John shook his head and went back to work.

The next time John paused, he wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He was vaguely aware that Scott was still there. The sounds of bedsprings shifting blended into the background, but not completely. John still felt the presence of Scott prickling under his scalp even as his focus was intent on the contract. But, his focus was officially broken. The words blurred and swirled in front of him, and he tossed down his pen as he slumped back into the chair, thumb and forefinger rubbing over his brows and temples until he felt he could blink his eyes back into focus.

As he settled his chin on his palm, his gaze drew to Scott. Scott was watching the telly--or rather, rolling his eyes at it--in much the same position as when he first sat there. John’s first thought was bedsores, which only brought into sharp focus how tired he was. Surely, if he were in England, he’d be eating breakfast right now. A laugh fizzed up his chest and puffed out of his nose, and Scott’s gaze landed on him. John held his gaze, and even as his eyelids drooped, a charge of excitement crackled under his skin.

Scott drew his legs up underneath him and stood on the mattress. He tiptoed to the edge like a naughty ballerina and hopped to the floor with impossible grace. His feet didn’t make a sound as they made contact with the carpet, or maybe John just couldn’t hear it through the buzz and blood rushing in his ears. Without breaking eye contact, Scott slinked over until he stood across the coffee table from John. John could only sit and watch, exhaustion and exhilaration pulling him in different directions. He felt if he moved, he might crumble.

Scott freed his stockings from the front of his garters and turned his back to John to undo the back. As Scott propped a foot on the lounger across and leaned over to pull down his stocking, his arse peeked out of his cutoffs. He did the other side, revealing a similar slice of flesh, and the only way John’s body could express his enjoyment were some accelerated, shuddering breaths and a burgeoning erection.

Scott was not daunted, however. He turned to face John and popped the button on his cutoffs, jutting his hips forward. His tongue dragged across his lips as his fingers dragged down his zip, and John’s body finally responded with a short whimper. Scott smirked and raised an eyebrow. He sighed as his hands pressed against his lower abdomen to spread the flies, a picture of practiced sensuality. Scott had to wriggle to get out of his cutoffs, and when John saw the black knickers, with Scott’s cock outlined obscenely against the satin and the head threatening to breach the waistband with the slightest shimmy, his mouth fell open.

“Like what you see?” Scott asked, staring at John through his eyelashes. John could only whimper and slide further down the chair as his knees gave up.

At that, Scott stepped up onto the coffee table and down between John’s legs. And as Scott kneeled in front of him, John watched his cock pulse upwards as if it were speaking for John’s entire body. An aching arousal throbbed through John’s body, and all he wanted to do was drag Scott up and crush them together from toes to hairline, feel the length of Scott’s barely hidden cock against his own, hot skin against hot skin. But it was like he was floating above himself, every part of him thrumming with anticipation but unable to do anything but watch.

Scott nuzzled against the base of John's zip, and finally John's eyes slid shut. Surrendered to the sensations in his body, he could only murmur unintelligibly as Scott asked, "What would you like me to do?"

Hot breath ghosted over John's groin before he felt Scott's palm sliding its way up John's zip until fingers could wrap around the button of his trousers. As the button opened, John could only sigh and drop a drooping hand over Scott's shoulder.

Scott dragged down John's zip and pulled the flies apart, wrapping his lips over the tip of John's cock through his pants. The alternating heat and cold of Scott's breath made John whimper and writhe even as Scott asked, "Is this it?"

John moaned and nodded, his feet attempting to find purchase in midair. His mind reeled from raging, warring hormones. Scott mouthed his way up and down John's cock through his pants, and John had no doubt he would come this way and thank the Lord for it. 

"Please," he heard his mouth form, and finally he felt fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants, tugging them down John's hips.

Scott stopped tugging once John's cock and bollocks were free, leaving fabric bunched low on John's hips. But he couldn't bring himself to care about the discomfort or the red marks slowly forming on his arse when Scott was rolling a condom down his length. When long fingers toyed with his bollocks, caressing lightly with his fingertips, pressing them against John's body with the heel of his hand, giving them a tug. 

"Shit," John hissed, which turned into a long groan as he felt lips wrap around his glans. A tongue pressed against his frenulum, stroked up and down and in circles.

Scott teased John, caressing the head of John's cock with just the tip of his tongue, skating fingers over the fur of John's bollocks, sliding one finger down his perineum. 

"Sh-" John started as Scott's hands slid around and underneath to squeeze and knead at John's buttocks.

His legs, trapped tight against Scott's body, writhed against worn cotton as Scott slowly worked his mouth down John's cock. Oh God, his tongue. His tongue was so hot and slick, licking rough circles down the underside of John's cock. His glans pressed and slid against Scott's palate, and he could feel the transition from hard to soft in lurid detail.

"God, that's incredible." John pressed his hips down to keep from thrusting, though he couldn't keep them from moving entirely. They rocked and writhed, and when John grunted and groaned with the effort, Scott moaned around him, sending a shiver through John's body.

"Scott," he breathed, tangling his fingers into Scott's hair, curls stiff with product. He wished he could spread his legs, lay himself bare and vulnerable to Scott's talented mouth and fingers. "You're amazing. So fucking good."

Scott's fingers circled back around, tickling hip bones and pressing into the dip just inside. John's cock pulsed against the insistent pressure of Scott's tongue just as fingers smoothed the pubic hair leading down from his navel. Oh God, this was the best blow job he'd ever received, and he could only imagine how it would feel without a barrier. Even with the understanding that it would never happen, he longed to feel Scott's lips and tongue anywhere else on his body. He imagined that the fingers ruffling and smoothing his pubic hair, cupping his bollocks were lips. That the tongue flicking his frenulum, wriggling down the underside of John's cock and tracing every vein and ridge and valley, was on his neck, teeth scraping at his pulse point.

John realized distantly that the hair under his fingers had grown soft. He hadn't even realized he was still touching it, and he could only hope he hadn't gotten too rough. "Sorry," he panted as he jerked his hand back.

Scott pulled off John's cock with an obscene slurp. "It's okay," he said, lips moving against John's cock with each word. "It feels... nice."

"All right." John tangled his fingers into Scott's hair, twirling curls over the backs of them, tucking strays behind Scott's ear. "God, you're beautiful," he heard himself sigh. This gorgeous, intelligent, mysterious creature could never be interested in John in real life. Why would he even be doing this now? He didn't need to.

John felt a huff of hot breath at the base of his cock and could have sworn he heard a low grunt from the same vicinity. He hummed low in his throat, stress evaporating from his body. Even as the tension of orgasm slowly coiled in his groin, the rest of his body went slack. His awareness of anything outside the sensations in his groin faded away. If someone had asked him where he was, he wouldn't have been able to tell them.

When John felt the back of Scott's throat, however, the world came slamming back. Scott held there, swallowing once, twice, before sliding up and back down again. He worked John's cock hard and fast, overwhelming John with sensation. His thighs pushed up against Scott's underarms and his back hunched forward. No words would form on his lips, only grunts and pants. The orgasm that had been slowly simmering burst into flame. His balls drew up tight. He was so close. He was going to--

Suddenly, Scott stopped. His lips were still, wrapped just below John's corona, and his tongue licked slowly up and down John's frenulum. His thumb and fingers wrapped around the base of John's testicles pulling them down with a constant pressure. At the sheer shock of it, John was finally able to open his eyes to the wicked glint in Scott's eyes. 

John could only fall back into the chair, huffing, "You bastard."

John couldn't help the whines that escaped his throat as Scott held him just short of the edge of orgasm. His entire body writhed, the feel of the leather chafing his arse and his thighs squeezing and sliding against Scott's torso standing out in vivid detail and fading away as his entire being pulsed towards his groin. He ached for release, both literally and figuratively. If Scott didn't let him come soon, he didn't know what he would do. 

Finally, Scott released John's bollocks and swallowed him down. And just like that, John was coming, his entire body contracting and convulsing, a long shuddering groan forced from his lungs. He gripped Scott's biceps, convinced that he would fall off the chair and through the floor if he didn't stay tethered. Scott held John deep in his mouth, fingers gripping his arse until the last of the aftershocks were through.

John collapsed. "Oh God. Oh God," he repeated, head rocking from side to side as his body melted into the cushions. Sleep dragged him under, and he lost track of his surroundings completely, even as Scott removed the condom and tucked John back into his trousers.

That was, until Scott chuckled. "Are you aware that you're still talking?"

John shook his head. He held out his arms. "C'mere."

Scott patted his knee. "Go to sleep."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, and thanks for reading!


	6. Mind if I take a swim in your tub before I go?

John was awoken by a rude ray of sunshine. Really, it was rather distasteful of it to slice low through the balcony shades and right into his left eye. What had he ever done to it?

John held his hand in the path of the light and grumbled before standing on wobbly legs. What time was it anyway? He patted his pockets for his mobile. Oh, right. Coffee table in the sitting room. As John teetered into the room rubbing the sleep from the corner of the assaulted eye, his gaze landed on the slightly less-than-full bottle of scotch.

He paused and exhaled through his nose. Jesus Christ, he really did that. Though John listened as he shuffled his way into the sitting room, he didn't hear any signs that Scott was still around. He must have snuck out while John was sleeping. Suddenly awake, John scrambled in his back pocket for his wallet. Still there, all the contents untouched. He lunged backwards to check his briefcase. All the cash was still there, but he should have put it in the room's safe the moment he arrived. Not an auspicious evening for decision making.

Alas, even if that was probably not the most wisely spent eight hundred--no wait, eight-fifty--he could at least rest assured that he hadn't invited a thief to steal his belongings. After following the instructions to set a combination on the safe, John shuffled back into the sitting room. He picked up the mobile from the table and coaxed it back to life. At the top of his notifications was a text from Harry. _What did you do?_

Oh shit, how did she know? John frantically shuffled through the call history, emails, and texts from his phone, and then, he could have just punched himself. She was talking about the damn car. John shook his head both in exasperation with himself and in an attempt to dislodge sleep. As he walked to the kitchen, he scrolled to Harry's name and tapped it.

Just as he geared up to leave her a voicemail, she answered. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Harry. You sound cheery as always." He opened cabinets. Where the fuck was the coffee?

"I just hit snooze on my alarm."

"Well, I'll let you get back to it, I just--" John stopped short at the vision of Scott, glistening with water and goosebumps covering his skin, walking into the kitchen. He grabbed a glass and filled it from the tap. Then, as he turned to leave, he stopped short to open a drawer holding a selection of single-serve Keurig cups.

"John?" someone said as John's feet carried him after Scott. As he crossed the threshold to the bedroom, John watched Scott close the door to the bathroom until only a sliver of steamy light shone through. "Earth to John."

"Oh, right! Sorry, Harry." He slumped down into his previously vacated chair. "Can we reschedule our meeting about the contracts for lunch?"

"For lunch? You can't be serious. I have to have those done by tomorrow morning, John."

John leaned his temple against the heel of his hand and shook his head. While he flipped through the neat stack of pages, he continued, "I know, but I barely got through half the pages before I passed..." 

Hang on a second. He hadn't gotten that far the night before. John scooted to the edge of his seat, lifting one side of the papers and going through them like a flip book. He turned to a page near the end. Wow. He stood up. "Actually, Harry. Never mind. Eight will be fine."

"All right. Thanks for the pointless call."

John strode for the bathroom. "My pleasure. See you then."

As John placed his hand on the door, he let the hand with the phone drop. But, he had to pick it back up again when he heard a small, tinny voice shout, "Hang on, wait!"

The door swung open, letting out warm, humid air tinged with rose oil, though John was sure he hadn't pushed it yet. Well, nothing to do but walk in. He was already found out. "What is it, Harry?"

Scott's gaze snapped to John, who gave a wave and a tight smile. "Your PA told me you've arranged a dinner meeting with the Doctors Dimmock.”

"Yes, that's right." John perched himself on the bathroom counter in clear view of the large, circular stone tub where Scott stretched.

"I think you should cancel."

"Yeah, that's going to happen," John scoffed.

"They aren't going to respond well to the hard sell."

Scott rolled over in the tub, propping his elbows on the edge and laying his hands between them. He settled his chin over his knuckles and smirked at John.

"I know that." John felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, if Mary's not here, what are they going to think it is? Sure as hell not a social call."

John sucked at his bottom lip. Harry did have a point there.

"Listen. Clara has a friend in town who could set you up with someone."

Though John had spoken to the senior Dr. Dimmock, they hadn’t actually met, and John would not be his best if he had to dine with three complete strangers, especially when one of them (the younger Dimmock from what he had heard) actively hated him. If he had to bring a date, he needed to know that person would be on his side. 

Aha.

"That won't be necessary," John finally replied.

"So, you're going to cancel?"

"I'll call you back."

"Hang on, John. Wha--" John tapped the end button.

With the mobile safely set aside, John rested the heels of his hands on the counter. "I thought you had left."

"And miss out on this bathtub? Not on your life."

As Scott rotated in the water to rest his head on the edge, John chuckled and shoved his hands in his pockets. Scott propped his chin on his fingertips. 

"I saw the notes," John said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I haven’t read them all, but they’re good.”

“Yes.”

John chuckled. The way this man took compliments was baffling. “Well, thanks. You really saved my arse.”

“I know.”

John pushed off the bathroom counter and circled to Scott’s line of sight. “How would you fancy doing it again?”

Scott raised an eyebrow, hands still steepled under his chin. “Have more contracts for me to look at?”

“Not at the moment, no. But I would like to make a business proposition.”

“Go ahead.”

John’s tongue raced along his bottom lip as he huffed out a breath. “I’ll be in town until Sunday morning, and I would like you to stay here with me until then.”

Scott’s eyes went wide for just a flash before his expression returned to neutral. “Why?”

“I have a number of social engagements this week, and let’s just say that having a date would grease the wheels a bit.”

The corner of Scott’s mouth twitched as he sat up in the tub. “John, we both know that’s not the reason. Wouldn’t it be much easier to find a woman to go with you? You could have any one of them. In fact, the receptionist last night found you very attractive.”

John scoffed. “She found you attractive. And I’d rather have a professional touch. I need someone available to me at any time and who I know, at least for the next week, is here for me. Who doesn’t care whether I’m a workaholic who doesn’t pay them any attention.”

“That’s awfully self aware of you, Doctor.”

“Well, you get those exact words thrown at you enough times, they start to stick in your memory.” John cleared his throat. “So, are you available?”

“How much?”

“Make an offer.”

Scott’s eyes narrowed as his fingers returned to their spot under his chin. “Ten thousand.”

John guffawed. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Six days at eight hundred is forty-eight hundred.”

“Yes, but you want twenty-four hours a day, do you not?”

John nodded, contemplating. “Seven.”

“Eight.”

“Done.”

“Very good,” Scott replied as he pushed himself to standing in the middle of the tub. “When you’re ready, we can discuss the terms.”

As Scott propelled himself out of the tub in much the same way he got onto the bed the night before, John whipped a towel from its holder and held it out for him. Scott took it with a smirk.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he asked, “Why so shy, Doctor?” He pressed his wet torso to John’s. “You seemed quite keen to see my body last night.”

With that, he spun on his heel and sauntered out, giving John his first glimpse of an intricate skull tattoo between Scott’s shoulder blades. John tugged at the damp cotton clinging to his chest. This was sure to be an interesting week; John had to give it that. God, he needed a shower. A cold one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas. I hope you enjoyed it. :)


	7. Rodeo Drive, baby

Sherlock draped himself over the lounger in the bedroom to check the notifications on his mobile, pushing his stockings aside. Nothing of importance. He tapped out two text messages that said simply ‘no.’ Billy had called several times and left several text messages as well. Rolling his eyes, he placed the call.

The second Sherlock heard the call connect, he said, “I’m alive. I’m fine. I’m moving out at the end of the week--”

“What?”

“--I’ll leave you some money for rent through the end of the month.”

“Wait,” Billy whined. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to give you the address. Are you ready for it?”

“What? No, I’m not ready for it. What’s going on?”

“Really, Billy, you must have seen this coming. Did you really think you could steal from me and jeopardize my place of residence without consequence?”

Billy sniffled. Oh, Lord. “I was going to pay you back.”

“No.” Sherlock waited for a response but only heard more sniffling. “Are you ready for the address?”

After another tedious pause, Billy muttered, “OK.”

“Good. It’s the Sixty Hotel on Wilshire Boulevard. Do you know it?”

“Yea.”

“The money will be at the front desk.” Sherlock waited. “Billy, are you there? Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he bit. “God, Scott, I fucking hate you. You know that?”

“Yes, well, join the club. I believe they meet at six-thirty on Wednesdays. Probably at Chili’s or some other ridiculous place.”

Sherlock ended the call and tossed the mobile on the floor beside him. As he stretched his arms over his head, John opened the door to the bathroom. He had on only a towel, and upon seeing Sherlock, his heat-flushed skin grew darker on his face and the back of his neck. How adorable.

Avoiding eye contact, John padded over to the telephone on the bedside table. He sat down on the bed once he finished dialing, revealing a peek of the cleft of his arse. Sherlock chuckled and snuck off the lounger.

“Hi, yes,” John spoke into the receiver. Sherlock put his knee on the bed. “This is John Watson in the penthouse. Has my luggage arrived?”

John nodded at the response at the other end. Sherlock lay flat on his belly behind John, face about a foot from John’s arse.

“Thank you. Would you have someone--” Sherlock spread the top of John’s cheeks with his thumbs, making John yelp and jolt into the air. “--send it up, please.”

The towel slipped, and John did his best to gather it up as he replaced the receiver. “What did you do that for?”

Sherlock pulled his legs up underneath him and sat on his knees. He shrugged. “Bored.”

John made a valiant attempt at looking stern, but his laughter effectively ruined it. And when Sherlock shuffled towards him, letting the towel fall where it may, John’s laughter died off. Sherlock sat at the edge, legs spread wide, putting his forehead at John’s eye level. Though Sherlock could see John’s pupils dilate, blood rush to the surface of his skin, and breathing quicken, John surprised him by reaching for a lock of hair at his temple.

John curled it around his forefinger and dropped it. “Your hair looks better without all that product in it.”

Sherlock swallowed, his skin crawling under the scrutiny of non-sexual attention. He grabbed at John’s towel. “You know what looks even better in my hair?”

John covered Sherlock’s hand with his own, holding the towel in place. “Maybe some other time. I need to get going soon.”

John patted Sherlock’s hand once and made for his overnight bag. As he yanked on a pair of grey boxer briefs, a polite knock sounded at the door. “That’ll be the luggage,” John said, snapping his waistband.

Before John could move, Sherlock whipped his towel around his waist. “I’ll get it.”

He strode past John and to the door, opening it to a petite porter. She carried a garment bag over her shoulder, rolled another bag behind her, and wore a wide-open mouth. Remembering herself, she clacked her jaw shut. “Dr. Watson?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, holding the door for her. “Please come in.”

She ducked past him with a shy smile. “Where should I--”

“Scott,” John called as he walked into the room, pulling his vest over his head. “Was that the-- Oh, hello.” He waved to the porter.

“Good morning, sir. Where would you like your luggage?”

“Here.” John held out his hand. “I’ll take it. Thank you. Give me just a moment to get your tip.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she replied, backing out of the room. “You can catch me later at the front desk. Call if you need anything else.”

With that, she was out the door. Sherlock closed it behind her and wandered back to the bedroom, where John was unzipping his garment bag.

“That was weird,” he observed.

“Not really. She was embarrassed because she planned on chatting me up until you came out.”

John chuckled. “That’s not surprising.” He paused as he pulled out a suit jacket. “Do you do women? I’m sorry. Was that a rude question?”

“Yes. It was a rude question.”

John paused and then nodded, picking out trousers. He held them and the jacket to the light, making sure they were the same color, then tossed them on the bed. He hefted his suitcase next to them, opening it and looking back and forth between the suit and the suitcase.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Your PA packs for you.”

“Just the suits,” John huffed, shuffling through the shirts. “She picked up new shirts and ties before I left, but I don’t know which she intended to go with which.”

Sherlock climbed back on the bed, picked a shirt and a tie, and set them on the jacket.

John stared at the selection, a crooked smile forming as he grabbed his trousers. “Thanks.” He dressed in silence until he struggled to knot his tie in front of the mirror. “I hate suits.”

“You own the company. Don’t you set the dress code?”

“How--” John waved his hand by his face. “Never mind. Believe me, it’s khakis and button-ups when I’m home, but here, you have to dress to impress. Oh, that reminds me.”

John yanked the last bit of material through the tie’s knot. It was a bit too long in the front, but Sherlock chose not to point it out. Grabbing his shoes on the way, John fetched his wallet from the bathroom counter. He fished out a credit card and handed it to Sherlock. “I have a business dinner tonight, and I’d like you to join me. It’s not too formal. I’ll be wearing jeans and a blazer. Just ask the salesperson to put together something smart casual for you.”

Sherlock took the card and twirled it between his fingers. “I know smart casual.”

John looked down at his tie, smoothing it down, and chuckled. “Oh, right. We’ll also have some more formal events, so I’m sure the concierge can find you a tailor that works fast. I’ll text you an itinerary when I can.” He adjusted his trouser cuffs and stood. “I think that’s about it. Is there anything you need before I go?”

“No,” Sherlock replied as John shoved the contract into his briefcase and slung it over his shoulder.

“Good.” John walked for the door and Sherlock followed. “Order whatever you want from room service. I’ll need you ready for dinner at six. Meet me in the bar off the lobby if I don’t see you earlier.”

John opened the door and paused with his hand on the knob. “Do you want me to come back for lunch?”

“No.”

John nodded. “All right. I’ll see you at six.” He started to close the door but stopped again. “Thank you.”

Once Sherlock heard the ding of the lift, he snatched the newspaper from outside the door and pulled out the classifieds.

***

Once he was dressed in his clothes from the night before, sans stockings, Sherlock opened the room’s door. But before he walked out, he rolled his eyes. Stupid. John didn’t leave him a key. He fiddled with the door handle, checked the construction and manufacturer information on the lock. He’d picked locks harder than this. The only challenge would be the lift, but all he needed for that was to find an access stairwell or service elevator. Simple enough.

So, cash hidden in the lining of his jacket, envelope and cigarettes in the jacket pocket, and John’s card in the back pocket of his cutoffs, Sherlock descended to the lobby.

“Good morning,” he said to the petite porter, who was filling in while the receptionist took a smoke break and was obviously quite nervous about it.

“Oh,” she squeaked. “Hello again. Enjoying your stay?”

“Very much.” He slid the envelope across. “A Mr. William Wiggins will be coming by to pick this up.”

She chewed her bottom lip as she took the envelope and placed it in a letter tray. “Yes, sir. I’ll let the receptionist know.”

Sherlock smirked, leaning over the desk conspiratorily. The porter glanced around then leaned in as well. “Don’t worry. He’s not my pimp.”

“I-- Sir, I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to--”

“No, but you were thinking it.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Sherlock shrugged, glancing at a silver-haired man stepping out of the back office. “It’s nothing.”

Sherlock retreated, and a few minutes later, he roamed Rodeo Drive. Ignoring the looks from other shoppers, he perused the windows. It wasn’t as if he was the most strangely dressed person on the pavement. Besides, if being looked at was going to bother him, he was in the wrong line of work.

The only question was how to hit the right balance. John was, after all, bringing a man half his age to a business meeting, which was daring in itself. So, if Sherlock dressed too conservatively, it wouldn’t ring true. It would look like he was trying too hard. But, anything overtly sexy was out of the question. So, when Sherlock found a window flaunting slim-tailored suits paired with regimental striped ties, he knew he found a good candidate.

As he pushed open the door, he chuckled to himself at the sneer from the apparel pusher behind the register. He let his footfalls thump against the buffed tile, boots squeaking with every step. As if this clerk didn’t have any skeletons in his own closet, as his watch, his antsy stance, and the scar on his mouth would attest.

Sherlock settled in front of a rack of blazers, thumbing through the stiff fabrics for something he could stand to wear. He heard the crisp click of shoes approaching.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“With which I can help you,” Sherlock corrected, moving on to another rack.

The clerk cleared his throat. “Are you looking for something in particular?”

“Clothes.” 

The clerk hung close by, straightening the racks as Sherlock went through them. “Are you certain you’re in the right store?”

“What’s the matter?” Sherlock asked with a dismissive glance. “Sugar daddy won’t pay for your Valtrex?”

The clerk spluttered. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“All right. Get out. Now.”

Sherlock pressed his lips tight together, biting down on them before letting them go. “Nothing here for me anyway.”

Sherlock stomped his way back to the hotel. God, this was exactly the life he was endeavoring to get away from. What could have possibly made him think this was a good idea? He lit a cigarette, sucking down smoke until the ember burnt his fingers. He blew out one last lungful of smoke, flicking away the butt as he stared at the hotel entrance. He could just catch a bus back to his neighborhood. He wouldn’t have to worry about dressing the right way or saying the right things to the right people. He wouldn’t be trapped playacting his youth to a bunch of strangers. But, he would be trapped with a flatmate who had no qualms about stealing from him to buy drugs.

With a huff, Sherlock slammed his way through the doors, stomping past the lobby and punching the button for the lift. As he waited, he saw the silver-haired man approach from his periphery. Fuck.

“Excuse me, sir. May I have a word with you for a moment?”

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the unlit arrow by the lift doors. “No.”

The man’s hand landed firmly on Sherlock’s forearm, not gripping, but making his intention quite clear. “I believe it would be in the best interest of both of us if you were to come with me. Just for a bit.”

Sherlock eyed the hand for a moment, the calloused indentation on the ring finger. Recently divorced. His eyes were concerned, tired, but not threatening. “Fine. Lead the way.”

“Thank you.” The man led Sherlock behind the front counter and into a back office. “Have a seat.”

As Sherlock sat, the man propped himself at the edge of the desk. 

“I must say, we find ourselves in a bit of a delicate situation.”

“Is that so?”

The man nodded. “Miss Hooper has informed me that you have joined Dr. Watson in the penthouse.”

“Yes. And?”

“It is hotel policy that certain . . . activities do not happen. However, since Dr. Watson has been an excellent customer of our New York hotels, I am willing to give him, and you, the benefit of the doubt.”

“You’re quite trusting.” Sherlock nodded towards Lestrade’s left hand. “Sometimes to your detriment.”

“Yes, well.” The man looked down, rubbing his thumb over the calloused indent. “Are you trying to talk me out of this?”

“No, of course not. That kind of trust is admirable after a betrayal.”

The man gaped. “How could you possibly--”

“You were saying something about the benefit of the doubt?”

“Yes. So, rather than make the”--he gestured to Sherlock’s attire--”pardon me for saying so, obvious assumption, can I assume you are a family member of Doctor Watson’s?”

“Of course.”

“Which would make you his--”

“Nephew.”

“Excellent. I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay.”

Sherlock stood. “May I go now?”

“In just a moment. I would like to discuss appropriate attire first.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “How diplomatic of you.”

“It’s my job.” He shrugged. “Do you have anything else to wear?”

“No. Acquiring appropriate attire has proved more difficult than I expected.”

“I see.” He circled behind his desk and grabbed a pen. “Go to the Armani store at this address and ask for this man. Tell him Greg Lestrade sent you. He’ll help you get what you need.”

Greg tore a sheet from the pad where he had been writing and handed it to Sherlock. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, and what may I call you?”

As Sherlock stood, he regarded the paper in his hand. “Sh- Scott.”

Greg held out his hand, and Sherlock shook it. “Nice to meet you, Scott. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks once again to my betas.


	8. He's not really my uncle

John walked into the hotel room at five-thirty, gratefully dropping his briefcase by the door and ripping his tie from his collar. He was ready to get out of these patent-leather nightmares and into some shoes that an actual human being might wear. He was rather hoping that Scott would be there as well. It would have been nice to have been able to go over a bit of strategy with him before they left, but perhaps it was better to be able to freshen up and change without the distraction.

Though, as he hung his suit jacket in the wardrobe, he had to admit that Scott’s presence or lack thereof had little effect on how much of a distraction he was proving to be. The vision of Scott sitting naked on the bed, legs spread wide, had been preoccupying him all day. As much as he tried to quash it, he couldn’t help but imagine tangling his fingers in soft curls and leaning down for a kiss. Letting his towel fall as he crawled over Scott’s body. Letting his body rest over Scott’s. Kissing his mouth and jaw and neck, and feeling Scott’s arousal stir against his hip. With every review of Scott’s brilliant notes, with every adjustment of his tie, any suppressed fantasies came rushing back until Scott predominated.

John shook himself back to the moment, unzipping his trousers and yanking them to his ankles. This was ridiculous. It was a business transaction, nothing more. He just needed someone without ulterior motives to support him in social situations where not having a date would be disastrous. Or at least, without unknown ulterior motives. He had no qualms about someone being there for the money if it meant no surprises.

Once in the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face, rubbed his palm across the stubble. Leave it, he decided. This night was supposed to be a social call, even if everyone around the table knew it really wasn't. In that way, he supposed his job and Scott's were similar. They gave people the illusion of familiarity to get what they wanted.

John put on the clothes he picked out--jeans, checked shirt, sweater vest, brown blazer--and finally, the person he saw in the mirror looked like himself. He smiled, slid his wallet into his back pocket. On the way out, he couldn't help but chuckle at the sprawl of newspaper covered in red ink and coffee rings, half-empty bags of expensive snacks, and a croissant rendered into crumbs.

He stepped off the lift into the lobby with something akin to first-date jitters. However, when he walked into the bar off the lobby, Scott was nowhere to be found. He checked the main waiting area and the smaller lounge area off the side, but still no sign of him. John checked his watch. Six-ten. Well, wasn't this fan-fucking-tastic. John clenched his fists as he took one last scan of the area, his eyes landing finally on the front desk.

Well, Scott did say that the evening receptionist fancied him. He worked the tension from his fists and prepared to put on his best English charm. But, as he made his charge, his progress was blocked by a handsome man, a few years further along on the grey hair scale. "Good evening. Doctor Watson, isn't it?"

John eyed him. "Yes, that's me."

"Good to finally meet you, sir. I'm Greg Lestrade, manager of the hotel."

"Oh." John shook his hand. "Hello."

"I have a message from your nephew."

"My nephew."

"Yes, sir." Greg adjusted his cuffs. "The young man staying with you."

"Yes, of course." John nodded sagely.

"He's waiting for you in Caulfield's."

"Thank you very much."

"Of course. And Dr. Watson, if you could, please check in your guest so we can issue him a key. He was locked out of your room today."

_Ah, fuck._ "Of course. Thank you." John tugged at the hem of his blazer and stepped to the side. "I'll just."

"Have a good evening, sir. Intriguing young man you have there."

"Intriguing." John glanced back at Greg as he walked.

Sidestepping a column, John walked into the bar area. As he turned the first corner of the central island to the tune of the buzz of pre-dinner cocktail drinkers, he spotted Scott in a booth. He sat with his ankle crossed over his knee, people-watching as he distractedly ripped an empty sugar packet to shreds. He looked like sex on a stick, and more posh than anyone had the right to be in jeans and a black button-up.

As Scott stood and threw on his black sport coat, the shirt pulled tight across his chest, leaving little to the imagination as his muscles shifted under cotton. John was not ashamed to say that it would take a team to lift his jaw off the floor. Scott smirked and buttoned his blazer.

"I suddenly feel underdressed," John croaked.

"Don't be silly," Scott replied, straightening John's collar. "This is you. Don't change a thing."

"I'm sorry you were locked out."

Scott shrugged as he lifted a stray hair from John's shoulder and tugged John's blazer into place. "I'm nothing if not adaptive. Shall we?"

"Yes, let's shall." Without thinking, John offered his hand to hold, and he would have cursed himself for it except Scott laid his palm against John's and nodded to the exit.

***

"Hello, we have a reservation for four under John Watson."

"Yes, sir," the hostess said, checking the book in front of her. "Please follow me. The rest of your party has already arrived."

John followed the hostess to a booth along the back wall. Flickering firelight glinted against the mirrors arranged above each booth as the men they were meeting chatted. John quietly ordered two glasses of wine before announcing his presence.

"Good evening, gentlemen. Sorry we're late." He held his hand out to the older of the two gentlemen. "It's nice to finally meet you, Doctor Dimmock."

"Doctor Watson, this is my son, Peter."

John shook his hand. "Good to meet you, Peter. This is my friend, Scott. Scott, this is Peter and Athelney Dimmock."

Scott shook hands with both men. "Pleasure."

"Oh," chimed Peter. "Are you both from England?"

"Yes," they both replied as they slid into the booth, Scott next to Peter and John on the outside, across from Athelney.

"Did you travel here together?"

John opened his mouth to respond, though he didn't know what would come out of his mouth. But Scott answered deftly, "No. I live here in Los Angeles."

The waiter came to the table with Scott's and John's wine and a plate of toasts with goat cheese and tapenade. "I hope you don't mind," Peter said. "We went ahead and ordered an appetizer for the table."

"Of course not," John replied, sweeping his serviette into his lap. He began to gesture to Scott to follow his lead, but when he glanced over, he saw that the lad had already done so and was transferring a toast to a small plate and serving Athelney.

"So," Peter continued as he chewed a corner of toast, "how do you two know each other?"

Once again, Scott seamlessly picked up the thread. "I interned at one of Dr. Watson's practices while I was at university."

"Oh, are you a doctor as well?"

"No. I did not complete my medical training. Although John was lovely to work with, the internship made it clear that I wasn't destined to be a doctor. So, I decided to come to America for a fresh start."

"What are you doing now?" Peter asked. John should really have been stopping the line of questioning, but instead he was rapt. Did Scott come up with this on the fly? It came out so naturally that if John hadn’t known better, he would have thought every word was true.

"I'm working as a research assistant in the UCLA chemistry department."

"No kidding. I did my undergrad in chemistry at Pomona."

The waiter interrupted to take their orders, and the rest of their meal passed without incident. They chatted amiably, ate too much food, drank too much wine, and Scott was a paragon of class. Surprisingly, not a single sexual innuendo escaped his mouth. He nibbled at his food and sipped at his wine, and was usually quiet unless discussing chemistry with Peter.

However, the peace was not to last. When their meals were finished and swept away, soon to be replaced with coffee, Athelney propped his folded hands on the table. "I think it's time we got down to brass tacks."

"Of course, Doctor Dimmock. What would you like to discuss?"

"Why my practice? We're just a small family practice that can barely make the rent."

"Several reasons. First, you're in an excellent location for one of our practices. You have good, modern facilities, an excellent customer base, trust in the community. Plus, I know your practice is in trouble. So, to be frank, it will be less costly to convert your location than set up a new one. Shall I go on?"

"No.” Athelney’s jaw compressed. “I think you've made your point."

"Look, I'd like to work with you. I'm offering to buy you out before your practice goes under, so you can walk away with a hefty sum of money instead of a hefty chunk of debt."

"And if I don't want to walk away?"

"I can offer you a position as a consultant. Your partners and support staff are welcome to reapply, and we'll do our best to keep them on."

"Doctor Watson," Athelney shifted forward in his seat and pointed an accusatory finger. "I have no interest in consulting on your froufrou luxury practices where celebrities get their Botox and acupuncture."

"I assure you that's not what--"

"I have lived and worked in this community for fifty years. I have seen three generations of patients in some families."

"Then this would be an excellent time to retire, wouldn't it?"

Athelney slammed a fist on the table, making ceramic and spoons rattle. "Do you think I'd be working at my age if I wanted to retire? I'm making a difference in my community. Do you know what it's like to make a difference?"

John cleared his throat past a lump trying to form. "Yes, sir. I do. I was a surgeon in the army."

"Well,” Athelney paused, his fist slowly releasing. “Thank you for your service, but how could you go from that to something so soulless?” Athelney stood. “I think it's time for us to go. Enjoy your coffee. Peter?"

"Coming." He turned to Scott. "It was very nice to meet you, Scott. It's not often I meet someone with my enthusiasm for science."

With that, the Doctors Dimmock were out the door. Well, that went well. John rubbed a hand over his face. He needed a drink. "Want to get out of here?"

"Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, and many thanks to everyone who's kudoed and commented. They never fail to make my day.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com).


	9. When I'm with a guy, I'm like a robot. I just do it. Well, except with you, of course.

John handed Sherlock a translucent violet cocktail before settling next to him on a ridiculously long leather sofa. They had to be specially made, though they took special care to make them look old and worn. Distressed, he believed they called it. And with the giant nude portraits of women dominating the entryway, half a dozen stone fireplaces around the outside wall, and cocktails at seventeen dollars apiece, Sherlock felt prickles creep over his neck, his shoulders tensing. If he were a dog, the hairs on his back would all be standing on end. This was just the kind of place Mycroft would love, and he found it hard to believe John actually wanted to be here.

And he couldn’t believe John actually wanted the cocktail, he of the scotch neat. Besides being purple, it held pieces of mint and blackberries and a bit of foam clinging to the sides of the glass. Sherlock sniffed it. Blackberry, mint, citrus, some kind of whisky, and ginger. He took a nip, certain it would be disgusting.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad.

John didn’t share Sherlock’s opinion as he grimaced and set his drink on a low table near them. Sherlock stretched his arm along the back cushion of the sofa, sipping at his drink like it was just something to do with his hands. He scanned the crowd for anyone interesting.

“Can I ask you a question?” John asked, interrupting Sherlock’s reverie. He turned his knees towards Sherlock and let his shoulder rest against Sherlock’s arm. Interesting.

“I suppose.”

“How much of what you said at dinner was true?”

“Very little.”

John guffawed and leaned forward to sip his cocktail, apparently forgetting how much he hated it. Nervous. Distracted. “God, it came out of your mouth like it was nothing. I was starting to wonder if that was your real story. Or if this were an elaborate sting.”

“Neither of those are true. I think you would have noticed if I had interned with you.”

“True,” John giggled as he picked up his drink again. “God, that’s terrible. I’m going to get something real to drink. Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you.”

John strolled back to the bar, and Sherlock resumed his scan of the crowd. So far, there was nothing interesting. Just couples on dates and mingling singles, though a few were not as single as they pretended to be. Insecure about recent plastic surgery here. Got Louboutins on clearance in the wrong size there. But then, a familiar silhouette.

Sherlock craned his neck, trying to spot the tall, muscled figure with the buzz cut. Surely it couldn’t be who he thought it was. Moriarty and his cronies kept to the low-rent neighborhoods. This was far too expensive and trendy, unless they were doing some celebrity spotting. So, if it was indeed Seb, and if the visit was personal rather than business, then Jim was sure to be in tow.

“So,” John cut in as he flopped into the seat beside Sherlock. “Dinner went swimmingly, didn’t it?”

Sherlock grunted, his head bobbing and weaving in an attempt to see past the crowd. Why wouldn’t they move? “Considering Alfie was openly hostile towards the end--”

“Alfie?”

Sherlock’s furrowed gaze snapped to John’s. “The older one.”

“Athelney,” John chuckled.

“Whatever.” Sherlock redirected his attention back to the milling horde.

“It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t want to retire. I can’t imagine if I was still doing this job in fifty y-- Are you all right?”

Fuck. It was Seb. “What?” He blinked at John. “Yes. Fine. You respect that about him, don’t you? That he wants to work.”

Sherlock took a pointed drink from his cocktail and kept a surreptitious eye on Seb. If they could just get between Seb and the exit without being spotted, this outing might pass without incident. Sherlock consulted his mental map of the room. There was too much open area between them and the crowd Seb was a part of. They’d have to go around the sofa and down the other side, but there was a bachelorette party gathered near the end. They could be loud and disruptive at any second. Who threw a bachelorette party on a Tuesday, anyway?

“Yeah, I guess. It would be nice to have that much passion for your work. I haven’t had that since Afghanistan.”

Their best bet would be to go over the back of the sofa. There were enough people on that side that they should be able to sneak through undetected. And surely, Sherlock’s change in attire had to help, especially with Seb. He was more likely to remember an arse than a face.

Sherlock laid his hand over John’s thigh and crowded close. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”

John swallowed. His tongue dragged against his lower lip as he glanced between Sherlock’s eyes and mouth. Sherlock did his best to hold John’s gaze, but he couldn’t help it flitting over.

“Yeah,” John said. “That’s all right, but are you sure you’re okay?”

Oh, fuck, he was spotted. Seb gestured violently to someone unseen. Jim, no doubt. “Fine,” Sherlock said as he stood from the sofa. “I just need to step out for a smoke.”

He strode away without waiting for a response, watching Seb out of the corner of his eye. He had to make sure Seb and Jim were tracking him instead of John. If he could get them to follow him outside, they could all have a nice chat, and Sherlock would be able to get them to fuck off.

Thankfully, his two enemies were just as predictable as he expected them to be, and a few seconds after Sherlock stepped out to the smoking area, his guests arrived. With any luck, after a quick taunting, he and John should be able to leave. Though Jim was mercurial to say the least. Sherlock slipped a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and propped it between his lips. “Got a light?”

Jim tugged the cigarette from between Sherlock’s lips and placed it between his own. “This is a bit outside your social circle, isn’t it?” he asked as he struck a match against a branded matchbook.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he fished a new one from the pack. “Is it?” 

With a spark and a whiff of butane, Sherlock’s new cigarette flared to life, and he blew the smoke wherever the wind might carry it. Which happened to be Jim’s face.

Jim’s nose wriggled almost imperceptibly. “That must be quite the special John you’ve got out there, taking you to such a fancy place. And whoo! Don’t you clean up nice?” He rubbed his slimy palms down Sherlock’s lapels. “Seb, doesn’t he look nice?”

Seb shrugged.

Jim giggled, his lit cigarette hanging uncomfortably close to Sherlock’s neck. “Don’t you just love the strong, silent type?”

Sherlock took a drag and blew the smoke from the corner of his mouth, keeping his eyes on Jim. He hoped the message was clear: I burn, you burn. “Not especially.”

“That’s too bad because, you know, Seb really likes you.” Jim tucked a curl behind Sherlock’s ear, the buildup of ash on his cigarette growing longer.

“I’m sorry to say I don’t return his feelings.”

“That’s too bad.” Jim pouted. “He’s so jealous of your John out there. It would be a shame if something were to happen to him.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Jim stared, wide-eyed, at Sherlock, but then his expression softened. He flicked the ash from the cigarette and took one more drag. “But I’ll tell you what. Maybe you could pop into the bathroom with Seb and let him have a little preview. You know, just a little something to reassure him.”

“Your tendency towards sexual violence is frankly disturbing.”

“A pimp has to do something to keep his whores in line.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched in anger. “I am not your whore.”

“Oh, Scott.” Jim giggled. “Your staunch optimism is so adorable.”

“I’ll be sure to put that on my business card.”

“Business card. I like that. So, what do you say?”

“My friend and I were just about to leave. I’ll have to make sure he doesn’t mind staying a li--” Sherlock grunted as Jim’s fist collided with his liver. Sherlock pulled himself to full height despite the throbbing in his gut only for Jim to grab his collar and push him against the wall. Jim’s grip constricted Sherlock’s airway enough to frighten him.

“Do you think I’m joking?”

Sherlock refused to show fear on his face, opting instead to stare Jim down as he calculated his best odds of getting out of there. It was looking like he might have to actually resort to physical violence. Tedious. And it could hardly be avoided that something would rip or stain in the process. Thankfully, the door from the nightclub opened in the next moment, and Jim dropped his hand.

But then, a flash of blond and brown whipped Jim around and slammed him face first into the wall, hands pinned behind his back, wrists contorted. 

“Are you all right?” John asked, gaze flitting to Sherlock for a nanosecond.

Sherlock straightened his shirt and cleared his throat. “Fine. I had things well under control.”

A smiled pulled at the corner of John’s mouth. “Remind me never to believe that.” He wrenched Jim’s wrists when he tried to push off the wall. “Who’s this desert lily?”

“No one of consequence.”

“I’m his pimp,” spat Jim. John raised his eyebrows in silent question, and Sherlock shook his head.

John wrenched Jim’s wrist farther up his back, making his shoulder pop. “Try again,” John demanded.

Even from his pinned position, Jim’s laugh sounded maniacal and dangerous. “You’re going to believe a low rent streetwalker?”

“Over you? Yeah.” Seb lunged forward, but John interrupted. “I swear to God; if you move a muscle, I will break all of your friend’s fingers.”

“Oh, this is interesting,” Jim crooned. “This one really likes you, Scott. Are you good for him? Do you sit and stay when he tells you to? Fetch his newspa-- Ow!”

John contorted Jim’s arms even more. A series of cracks and pops sounded dully against the exterior wall. “Enough talk from you. Just nod for yes, and shake your head for no. Understand?”

Jim nodded.

“Good. You’re going to leave Scott alone. If you touch him again, I will end you. Do I make myself clear?”

Jim set his jaw.

“Oh my god,” someone yelled nearby. “Somebody call the cops.”

John turned to Sherlock and said simply, “Run.”

Sherlock vaulted over the barrier between the club and the pavement as John pushed off Jim and rushed after him. They ran for several blocks, weaving through midnight revelers and leaving shouts and complaints in their wake. They squeezed through alleyways, their trail a maze through the city.

“I hope you know where you’re going,” shouted John from behind him.

Sherlock ducked into an alcove, and John followed, propping himself on the opposite wall. “We should wait here a bit. Make sure we weren’t followed,” Sherlock said, rubbing the heel of his right hand against the bottom of his ribs.

“This. This is the--” John paused to catch his breath “--craziest thing I’ve ever done.”

“You keep saying that.”

John burst into laughter. “It keeps being true.”

A smile tugged at Sherlock’s mouth. “Is that a complaint?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“We can go now,” offered Sherlock, pushing off the wall with a wince he hoped wasn’t noticeable. “No one followed us.”

“Hey.” John reached out his hand, falling just short of touching Sherlock’s ribs. “Are you hurt?”

"It's just a scratch."

"All right, Mercutio. Let me see."

John grabbed Sherlock's shirttail and tugged it from his trousers, unbuttoning the bottom three buttons once it was free. He squinted at Sherlock's stomach. Then, he took out his mobile and shone the flashlight on Sherlock's skin. Sherlock couldn't help it. He went stiff. His shoulders drew up, and his arms went rigid at his sides.

"Relax. I'll take care to make sure nothing I do hurts you."

"I'm not afraid of pain," admonished Sherlock.

John didn't comment, apparently concluding that Sherlock was lying. He laid his palm over the mark just below Sherlock's rib. He palpated the edges, working his way toward the middle with soft touches.

"How's this?" John asked.

"Fine."

John huffed. "Scott, if you don't tell me the truth, I can't help you."

"Tender."

"On a scale of one to ten?"

"Three." Sherlock shrugged. "He doesn't know how to throw a proper punch. Usually, his toady takes care of it for him."

John pressed along the span of each rib, working his way up. He raised his eyebrows to Sherlock, who shook his head. "Well, I suppose that makes you special."

Sherlock chuckled. "That's one way to put it."

"So." John cleared his throat, dropping Sherlock's shirttail. "Was that business as usual for you?"

"He'd never punched me before, if that's what you're asking."

"I think you know it's not."

Sherlock pulled himself to full height, buttoning his shirt and staring down John. "I think we should find a cab."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life & monikakrasnorada.
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com).


	10. I was getting lonely upstairs all by myself.

The cab ride back to the hotel was silent and tense. John kept glancing at Sherlock, opening his mouth to speak and then deflating. Sherlock would have turned to him and told him to get out with it already except he knew what John was going to ask. And, he was not in the mood to tell his backstory to someone he had known for two days. It appeared that John was more perceptive than he seemed, though, because without fail, he slouched in his seat, and his jaw clacked closed.

When they arrived at the hotel, John paid the cabbie and exited, letting the porter hold the door open for Sherlock. He strode for the front door of the hotel and opened it. But as he took a step to go through, he stopped, backed up, and held the door for Sherlock.

"Ta," Sherlock said with a glance in John's direction. He walked through the lobby with his head held high, the click of his shoes loud in his ears though the acoustics in the lobby were dead. The night receptionist beamed at them, or more specifically at John. Ignoring her, he turned towards the lift. He could feel John waving to her behind him as he pressed the up button.

As the door dinged, Sherlock rushed to it and stepped inside once the gap was wide enough for him to squeeze through. He held the door open for John, who pulled his wallet from his trousers.

"You know what. Go on ahead." He handed Sherlock the key. "I'll be up in a while. I need to check you in anyway. Put some ice on that bruise and take some aspirin or ibuprofen, okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

“Not paracetamol. In case your liver is injured.”

Sherlock gaped as John walked away and the door closed. But then, he had to admonish himself for being so stupid. He shouldn't be surprised or offended that John wanted to chat up the receptionist rather than spend more time with a combative prostitute. He thumped the back of his head against the lift wall.

This was why he didn't do the long-term bullshit. It was only so long before his personality drove them away. John actually lasted a respectable period. Maybe even liked him before he shut down. Stupid transport, always doing things Sherlock didn't tell it to do. If he only could have stuck with being seductive, acted like John's touch drove him wild, made a joke about playing doctor, told him there was swelling that needed taking care of. But no, he had to clam up and make the doctor angry.

By the time the lift opened for the penthouse, Sherlock was seething. He had half a mind to pack up and leave. Fuck the eight thousand dollars. He jammed the keycard into the lock and yanked it out, slamming it open at the green light. And then his eyes landed on the dining table.

Jesus fuck! They cleared away his newspaper. He hadn't bothered to file anything away in his mind palace, and now it was gone. The rational part of his brain told him that another paper would come tomorrow, but the rest of him didn't want to hear it. Instead, he paced the room, fingers pressed together, mind racing until the wheels threatened to fall off.

After enough pacing that his feet hurt, Sherlock decided that maybe it was time to calm down, try to think through this rationally. There had to be something he could do to convince John to keep him around. He already knew that John did not respond well to overt methods, but he couldn't tolerate if the only choice was to tell John about Moriarty and his own occupational hazards.

If only he could have stayed in New York. His business was thriving there. He had good regulars, who paid better than anyone in LA would. Which was fine. He knew he had to pay his dues and build a base. But, after five years in New York, he had to go and get himself arrested, which meant his fingerprints were run. And that meant Mycroft. The second those fingerprints were scanned, he knew they would get flagged, and Mycroft would be on the next flight, likely on some supersonic government jet. So, he had to leave everything behind--all his belongings and, more importantly, all his cash--to move as far away as he could.

John was supposed to be his ticket to bigger and better things. Sherlock took a deep breath. He needed to relax, and if he was indeed about to get fired, he should at least take advantage of the tub one last time. He stripped as he walked, leaving the veritable trail of breadcrumbs behind. After getting the water to his preferred temperature, he picked out some bath oil. John’s toiletries were lined up with military precision in order of use. How disgustingly adorable.

Sherlock switched the positions of two items, feeling a bit petty but not caring much. He poured the entirety of the bath oil into the water and threw the bottle in after it. When the bath finally filled, Sherlock got in, leaning his head back on the rim and closing his eyes. He tried to piece together the bits of the classifieds that he remembered. He wanted to file them away so he wouldn’t have to waste time finding them again, but John kept popping up. And after too many interruptions, Sherlock decided to just put John in his mind palace so he’d stop thinking about him for a minute.

He decided to add an annex of the hotel room. It would make John easier to delete later.

He filed away the cab ride first and worked his way backwards. John checking his wound with care and empathy. John’s laughter at the end of the chase. John’s hands contorting Moriarty. He might keep that one forever even when he deleted the annex. John buying him a drink, sitting close to him, talking to him like a friend.

No, this was going the wrong way. John was insulted that Sherlock wouldn’t tell him more about his job. After the conversation at dinner and most of what came after, he was sure to think Sherlock a pathological liar. He couldn’t drive. He was absurdly modest. He frowned when he was concentrating or confused. He licked his lips when he looked at Sherlock. He laughed at danger. He squeezed Sherlock’s knee under the dinner table whenever something struck him as funny or absurd. And when Sherlock would look over, John glanced from the sides of his eyes, and his lips twitched in attempt to rein in a smile. He laughed with Sherlock, not at him. He was awed by Sherlock’s deductions instead of disgusted by them.

By the time Sherlock had all the bits filed away, the bath water had gone cold. And he hadn’t resolved anything. He still, not even a minute later, was having intrusive thoughts about John, and he didn’t piece anything together that would help him find a flat. He grunted in frustration at himself as he pulled the plug.

John was sure to be back by now. He was probably giving Sherlock his privacy. Though, for all Sherlock knew, John had come in and talked to him while he was in his mind palace. As he dried himself, Sherlock strode into the bedroom, determined to play things based on how he found John. But, John wasn’t in the bedroom or the sitting room or the kitchen. It was three o’clock in the bloody morning. Where was he?

Sherlock put on the pants he was wearing at dinner and climbed into bed. Then he threw the covers off and paced. Fat lot of good the bath did him. God damn emotions mucking up the works. He had no reason to feel jealous or worried. He didn’t have sole claim on John Watson just because John hired him. And if he was fired, there would always be other Johns.

He sat in the sitting room to watch the telly, but he just couldn’t settle. After scrolling through the channels twice with his legs bouncing and wriggling, he hopped up. He was going downstairs. If someone else was manning the front desk, he would know that John was shagging the receptionist. And if she was there, she would probably know where John went.

Sherlock threw on a dressing gown and grabbed the key from where he dropped it in the entryway. Eschewing shoes, he opened the door and walked to the lift.

When the lift doors open, Sherlock peered out to see the receptionist still at the front desk. Ignoring the relief he felt at the discovery, he forced his body to relax and approached her.

“Hello, sir. Is there something you need?”

“Yes, do you know where John is?”

She tittered. “Um, that’s a pretty common name.”

“Don’t play games with me. Where did Dr. Watson go?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t seem likely. He was here chatting you up earlier.”

“Chatting me up? Is that a British thing?”

Sherlock closed his eyes. As he snapped them open, he blurted, “Flirting!”

“Oh.” She tittered again. He wished she would stop. “He wasn’t flirting with me. I mean, he’s cute and all, but come on, he’s too old for me.”

“Then what was he doing?”

“He checked you in and then he stared into Caulfield’s for a bit. It was really awkward. He just kept staring into space. And then he thanked me and got in the elevator. I figured he went to his room.”

“Well, obviously he didn’t.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do.” She sniffled. “I told you everything I can think of. I can’t keep track of all the guests.”

Did he have to spell it out to her? “Are there any amenities upstairs?”

“There’s a bar and a pool on the rooftop, but they’re closed for the night.”

Doubtful that would stop John. “Thank you.”

Sherlock rushed to the lift and rode it to the rooftop. At first sight, there didn’t seem to be a sign of John, just a couple waiters completing their side duties.

“Pardon me. Have you seen John Watson come through here?”

The waiter glanced at Sherlock's dressing gown, his eyes going wide for a microsecond before looking Sherlock in the eye. “Is that the blond dude dressed like a grandpa?”

“Most likely.”

The waiter pointed. “Through that door.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock found John sitting at the edge of a long booth. His feet lay across it, and his elbow was propped on a small table, rocks glass in hand while he stared at the fireplace across. When the door closed behind Sherlock, it broke John’s reverie.

“Hey,” he said, sliding down the booth until he was across from Sherlock. “You okay?”

“Just wondering where you were.”

“I’ve been here. I couldn’t have been gone”--he glanced at his mobile--“oh. Shit. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock shrugged it off. “What have you been doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About dinner?”

“About a lot of things.” He set his glass aside and ran his hands over his face.

Sherlock frowned. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head and propped it on his hand. “I don’t know.”

Sherlock’s lips drew into a purse before he schooled his expression back to neutrality. “If you want me to leave, that’s fine, but I’d rather you just get out with it.”

John sat up straight. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“You don’t?”

“What made you think that I did?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“C’mere.” John held his arms out and beckoned.

“If you’re looking to hug me, that’s not going to happen.”

“All right, I won’t hug you. C’mere.”

Sherlock approached until he stood between John’s knees.

“Look. I know I seemed angry in the car ride over. It’s just that.” He rubbed a hand over his face then fiddled with the ends of the dressing gown’s belt. “Dinner was a disaster, and what happened at the bar was a bit intense.”

John sighed and laid his forehead on Sherlock’s stomach. Tentatively, Sherlock brushed his hand through the hair on the back of John’s head. John hummed and then asked, “How’s your bruise?”

“Fine.” Sherlock dragged his palm against the grain of John’s hair.

The hands that had been fiddling with the ends of Sherlock’s belt tugged. “Can I take a look?”

“By all means.”

John pulled free the knot around Sherlock’s waist, letting the dressing gown fall open. Without pushing it aside, John reached his right hand under the robe and laid his palm over Sherlock’s injury. Sherlock gasped. John’s hand was cold from the glass. He bit his lip to quiet himself, but he was certain John had noticed.

“You didn’t put any ice on it, did you.”

“No.” He didn’t need to explain himself to John.

John huffed, pulling his hand away and dumping the ice from his drink into his right hand. “It’s not perfect, but it will have to do for the moment.”

As John cupped the hand full of ice over Sherlock’s side, Sherlock tried not to wince at the cold spark of pain. Or react to the rough fingertips settling against his rib cage.

“You should really follow your doctor’s orders.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’re my doctor now?”

“I’m the doctor that’s treating your injury.”

A cold rivulet escaped past the heel of John’s hand, snaking down Sherlock’s belly until it soaked into the waistband of his pants. John was so intent on Sherlock’s injury that he didn’t notice the water until Sherlock shivered.

"Oh." John rescued a stream with his left thumb, licking it clean. "Sorry."

"It's nothing."

Another stream escaped, and John repeated the maneuver. "I really should get you a proper ice pack."

With his palm, John spread the remaining drips of water across Sherlock's abdomen in a futile attempt to dry it. As the fingers of John’s left hand curled over Sherlock's side, another bit of water flowed down Sherlock’s stomach, pooling at the waistband of his pants. John licked his lips as he stared at the spot, and Sherlock couldn't stop his own sharp intake of breath.

More water pooled in the same spot, and this time, John leaned forward and licked it away, his tongue swirling warm and rough against chilled skin. Sherlock's breath escaped in a ragged huff. His pulse surged downwards, building a slow tension in his groin. John was sure to have noticed the sign of arousal, but he made no immediate sign of recognition.

But, his tongue pressed just under Sherlock's waistband. Though John couldn't have licked more than a few millimeters under the fabric, it felt obscene. Sherlock stifled a groan. This was unacceptable. Unprofessional. Inexcusable. His body did not react to stimuli without his permission.

But as John's mouth chased a rivulet of water to its source, Sherlock's hand flew into John's hair. His head fell back. His cock formed a noticeable bulge. He pressed himself against John's mouth, and the stifled groan finally escaped. John hummed against his skin, and the warm hand curled around his waist slid around to cup his arse cheek.

The world around him buzzed and blurred as John's tongue chased droplets over his abdomen. Goosebumps raised under John's tongue, along Sherlock's spine and scalp. Sherlock felt his areolae contract, the edges of the dressing gown tease his erect nipples. His cock strained against his pants. His breath came in short huffs, and every part of him ached for more.

He heard a distant tinkling and felt a sudden flow of water down his side. John's right palm smeared the water over Sherlock's hips. While his left hand still cupped Sherlock's arse, his right snaked up to fondle Sherlock's nipple. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, tugged, and plucked. All the while his tongue never lost its coordination.

"John," Sherlock heard himself rumble. His knees trembled. John's tongue left his body, and Sherlock found himself actually whining. He would have been embarrassed if he hadn't been so desperately aroused.

"Tell me what you want."

Sherlock looked down, his vision blurred with want. All he could think to say was, "More."

John's voice rasped around a groan, and his hands thrust underneath Sherlock's waistband. Sherlock stumbled closer, catching himself on John's shoulder as John's palms caressed his buttocks. A calloused fingertip circled the base of his cleft, sliding forward to his perineum. His mouth dropped to the bulge in Sherlock's pants. Sherlock's cock pulsed towards hot breath, and his knees went weak.

Luckily, John was there to catch him, but Sherlock couldn't squelch the burning in his cheeks. He shut his eyes against it. He'd never had this little control of himself during a trick. He needed to get control of himself, separate himself from the act. He took a deep breath and blew it slowly through his nose.

"Hey." John patted the fingers digging into his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock winced. He stepped back, dropped his hands, pulled himself straight. "Fine."

"Do you-" John licked his lips. "Do you want to go back to the room?"

"No."

"Do you want to stop?"

"No." 

John scooted forward, his thighs spread wide and nudging Sherlock's knees. And then John's hands were back down Sherlock's pants, this time hooking his thumbs over the waistband and dragging it down Sherlock's arse. The material bunched at the front, pulling down on Sherlock's cock and making fabric draw over it. It was constrictive and rough, but it made Sherlock groan and thrust his hips.

As the pool of water spread to tickle the edge of the outside arch of Sherlock’s foot, John's mouth closed over the tented fabric. His tongue flickered against Sherlock's slit, and this time Sherlock well and truly lost his balance. His knees gave, and his right foot slipped in the water.

When John caught him this time, one arm hooked under Sherlock's armpit and the other still gripping Sherlock's arse, John said, "Maybe you should sit down."

Sherlock nodded. His mouth went dry as John helped him out of his pants and stood. John licked his lips as his hands circled Sherlock's waist, and despite himself, Sherlock's gaze drifted to John's mouth. His head curled downward. His body swayed into John's gravitational field.

But, just as John lifted his chin, Sherlock's senses returned enough to evade. He cocked his head and curled down to John's ear. "How do you want me?"

John shivered, and Sherlock smirked against his lobe, relieved to have wrested back some control. He stepped back enough to wrap the dressing gown around himself while sidestepping John, and this time John got caught in his gravitational field, turning his body as Sherlock walked around to the bench and sat, letting the gown fall open again.

John’s tongue darted out, dragging his lower lip with it on the way back in, and Sherlock had to shut his eyes against his desire to capture that lip between his teeth. Instead, he concentrated on the feeling of wood and leather against his back and thighs through thin silk, of John’s hands on his knees, of John’s body settling between them. John’s hands slid up the insides of Sherlock’s thighs, soft as a whisper, making Sherlock’s muscles twitch, making him ache for a firmer touch. He found himself sliding down the seat, pressing himself against those hands. Strong, capable hands.

Despite his own misgivings, at the sensation of John’s breath against his groin, Sherlock opened his eyes only to see rapture in John’s face. John’s own eyes were hooded, nearly closed as his breath ghosted over Sherlock’s cock, watching it jump and twitch towards the heat.

“God, you’re beautiful,” John whispered, his eyes finally meeting Sherlock’s before he took Sherlock’s glans into his mouth, laving the slit and humming at the taste.

This was unprecedented. It was rare enough for a client to perform fellatio on him, but like this. God. It was reverent. And in that moment, Sherlock’s mind wasn’t busy processing how to use that information for his own financial gain. All he wanted was to let the sensations wash over him, let John take care of him, even for just a moment. He didn’t know how to process the information, and the movements of John’s tongue were quickly shutting down any thoughts outside of _God. Yes. More._

Sherlock’s thighs spread, and his body slipped down in his seat until he was hanging half off it, supported only by John’s hands beneath his arse. And it was heaven. John’s tongue was a revelation, worshipping his cock with fervor and determination, like he was hell bent on learning every discrete sensation he could wring from Sherlock’s body.

And Sherlock let him, every movement of his body, every cry from his mouth begging for it. His fingers tangled in John’s hair, pulling him closer, and John obliged until Sherlock could feel aborted breaths ruffling his pubic hair with every thrust, could hear moans cut off as Sherlock’s cock blocked John’s airway.

God, John was letting Sherlock fuck his throat, and at that realization, Sherlock’s body broke, spilling into John’s mouth without warning. And John stayed, letting Sherlock come in his mouth, swallowing and moaning for more.

Sherlock trembled and shuddered in John’s grip as John lapped stray drops from his slit until oversensitivity forced him to push John away.

“God,” John breathed, sounding awed, and Sherlock tried and failed to respond intelligibly, his eyelids and body heavy.

“I think we ought to get you to bed,” John said, and Sherlock could only nod.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life & monikakrasnorada.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the update!


	11. Wake up. Time to shop!

The alarm on John’s mobile went off far too soon, but his sour mood at having to open his eyes was mitigated somewhat when he rolled over. Or, that was, when he tried to roll over, because his progress immediately halted under the weight of a leg thrown over his knees. Shimmying underneath it, John got himself flipped over and looked at his bed partner.

Scott lay on his back, one arm pillowed under his head and the rest of his limbs thrown to the four corners. His hair was a halo of frizz, and the side of his face bore a crease from the seam of his pillowcase. From his gaped mouth emanated a low drone of a snore. His legs tangled in the sheets, leaving John without covers. He was magnificent.

If it hadn’t been against the rules, John might have kissed him right there. Not on the mouth, true, but he had a feeling the forehead or the cheek probably fell into the “not good” category. So, he settled on a squeeze just above the knee of the leg thrown over his, rousing Sherlock enough that he grumbled and rolled onto his side.

With a spring in his step, John crossed from the bed to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. He turned on the hot water, rinsing his toothbrush under it before it could warm up, and swapped the order of his shaving cream and deodorant. As he went through his morning routine, he reminisced about the night before, the way Scott responded to him. Sure, it was most likely an act, but it was a good one. And now, all John could think about was when and how he could be alone with Scott again.

Of course, he wasn’t meeting with Harry until lunchtime, but he did have panels and mixers where he should show his face. Plus, he was supposed to have a date for the polo game the next morning, and as far as he could tell, Scott only bought the one outfit. And he had returned John’s credit card.

John sighed. So, even if John had decided to skip out on the panels, Scott had more shopping to do. Time to wake him up, it seemed. So after leaving the bathroom, John threw on a button-up with a tie and a pair of slacks and then sat on Scott’s side of the bed.

John placed his hand on Scott’s shoulder and jostled it. “Scott, time to wake up.”

Scott groaned, stretching like a cat before his eyelids blinked open. “Hmm?”

John fished out his credit card. “I need to go, and you need to shop.”

Scott propped himself on his elbows, scowling at the card. “More shopping.”

“Problem?”

“Tedious.”

John scoffed. “Is it really all that bad?”

Scott’s scowl deepened. “My mannerisms and dress proved detrimental to the experience.”

“Meaning?”

“I got kicked out.”

John burst into laughter, quickly stifling it at Scott’s expression. He glanced at his watch.

“I’ve got some time,” John lied. “I’ll come with you.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Really, John. I’m not a child. I don’t need you to take me shopping.”

So he said, but the second it was out of his mouth, he stared at his fingers pushing back the cuticle on his thumb, his lower lip protruding. John smiled, tamping down the urge to kiss it.

“Come on,” John cajoled. “It’ll be fun.”

Sherlock huffed, sweeping himself off the opposite side of the bed. “Fine.”

***

“Hello, I’m Mr. Hollister, the manager. How may I help you?”

John’s ears perked up from where they had been listening to Scott deduce the life story of a street performer outside, and he reached out to shake the manager’s hand. “Hello. Thank you. I was wondering if you have anything in this store as gorgeous as this man to my right.”

Apparently not noticing the roll of Scott’s eyes, the manager nodded enthusiastically, saying, “Of course.”

John smiled and raised his eyebrows, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“What I mean-- What I meant to say is that we have clothes striking enough for him… to wear. That a man as striking as him… Well, we have many things that he would love, I’m sure.”

John glanced at Scott, a smile tugging crookedly at both their features.

“Listen,” John finally said, pulling the manager aside. “Mister--”

“Hollister, sir.”

“Mr. Hollister, we’re in need of several items, and I think we can both agree that the more we find here, the happier we’ll all be, right?”

“Certainly, sir.”

John patted him on the shoulder. “Great, so if you and your staff could find some outfits to try on, we’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course. Do you need casual, formal, business?”

“We need it all.”

The manager nodded, walking off as he flagged down his staff, and said under his breath, “I like him so much.”

A few minutes later, John was sitting outside the dressing room, feet propped on an ottoman, answering email on his phone and watching Scott parade around in outfit after outfit. And although John chuckled at the cooing of the staff after each, he couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. Scott looked good enough to eat, and John just wanted to go into that dressing room and snog the living shit out of Scott, drop to his knees and rumple all those crisp new clothes. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat and tugging at the hem of his trousers.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, his line of thought was interrupted when his phone rang.

“Harry?”

“Where are you, Johnny? I think I’ve checked every room in this godforsaken place. Got myself a few dirty looks, too.”

John sat up, his eyebrows shooting to his hairline. “You’re at the conference? Why?”

“Oh, gee. Hmm. Could it be that I need to talk to you? Maybe now?”

“And you didn’t think to call me earlier?”

Harry huffed, air blasting against the phone speaker. “You were supposed to be here. You need to find a staff for the new place, remember?”

“Yes, Harry. You’re my lawyer, not my babysitter.”

“If that helps you sleep at night.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just tell me what you want.”

“The Doctors Dimmock are none too pleased with you.”

Scott walked out of the dressing room to a chorus of salesmen, and John gave him a thumbs up. “Tell me what else is new.”

“They’ve started a smear campaign.”

“Both of them?”

His brows furrowed, Scott crossed to John’s chair, straddling the ottoman.

John dropped his feet to the ground.

“At least the older one. The one with the funny name.”

John rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, I’m not exactly surprised.”

“Then you need to get down here right now.”

Scott raised his eyebrows.

John frowned, sighing, “All right. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

John hung up the phone with a huff, wishing to himself that they still made flip phones so he could have slammed it shut. And he was having such a nice time. He stood, tucking his phone into his front pocket before circling his fingers over Scott’s elbow.

“I have to go. I should be back to the hotel in time for dinner.”

Scott nodded. “Of course.”

“You look great,” John continued with a squeeze and then turned to the store manager. “He has my card.”

“And we’ll help him use it, sir.”

***

By the time John got to the conference, Harry was steaming. John found her in the hotel bar, a sweaty pint grasped in her fingers. John sighed in resignation. _That’s always a good sign._

“I’m here,” John announced, slipping into the seat beside her.

“Good.” She spun towards him. “Time for damage control. You need to set the record straight.”

“I don’t know, Harry. I’ve never found that to be a successful tactic. It just draws attention.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem. He’s drawing plenty of attention.”

John scoffed. “What could he possibly be saying?”

“That you’re out for nothing but money--”

“That’s not exactly new.”

“--That you brought some little tart to the dinner who flirted with his son all night. Really, John, who is this girl?”

John waved it away. “Doesn’t matter. If he didn’t like my date, that’s his problem. What else have you got?”

Harry took a long sip from her beer. “He’s saying he has the inside track on a loan. That it’ll keep them afloat long enough to get you permanently out of their hair.”

John clenched his jaw, rubbing his palm over his mouth. “Is there any credence to it?”

“Yes,” she huffed. “Why do you think I brought you down here?”

John threw up his hands. “You got me.”

“Do we know anyone at Plymouth Trust?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should just let it go?”

Harry sputtered. “What? Have you lost your mind?”

John shrugged. “I’ve been thinking. I used to make a difference, yeah?”

She stared at him like he’d grown another head before gulping at her beer again.

“Harry, do you think you might want to--” 

“Start asking around.” She took out her wallet and threw down a couple of notes. “If this deal is going to happen, we have to stop that loan.”

With that, she stormed out of the bar, off to do who-knows-what. Probably harass every banker she’d ever been in contact with. John sighed, eyeing the half-empty glass. Had Scott really been flirting with Peter? And if so, did it really matter? Was Athelney a homophobe or did he just find it unprofessional? He didn’t seem bothered by it at dinner, so maybe he was just looking for anything to put John in a bad light.

Under normal circumstances, John would be incensed. He would be going for the jugular, making Athelney’s life a living hell. But now, he couldn’t help think about what Athelney had said at dinner. John had loved the army, loved feeling like he was making a real difference. And now he was building practices that catered to people who didn’t know what to do with all their money. It had seemed a good idea at the time, with Harry espousing the values of untold riches. But now…

He needed to take a walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life & monikakrasnorada.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thanks for reading!


	12. How was your day, dear?

Several hours, a boring panel or two, a long walk, and a few drinks later, John slipped the keycard into the lock to his hotel room. He yanked it back out, but the light remained red. He did it again.

Still red.

He growled and jammed the key into the slot. Still fucking red.

He dropped his briefcase, muttering curses at the damned lock and making the door jiggle on its hinges, the bolt clattering inside the lock. After another attempt involving shaking the door handle, he seriously considered kicking the damn thing down.

Luckily, Scott chose that very moment to open the door wearing nothing but a pair of blue boxer briefs and a matching tie hung loosely around his neck.

John let a long breath escape through his mouth. “Nice tie.”

Scott ran it between his fingers. “It’s for you. Matches your eyes.”

John reached out for the tie, narrowly resisting the urge to pull Scott’s lips to his with it. “Is this the right color? People always tell me they’re brown. Or hazel.”

“People are idiots.”

John chuckled, his eyes fixated on the tie against Scott’s pale skin. He licked his lips. “We should order room service.”

“On the table.”

Scott backed into the room, and John followed, letting himself be led by the tie into the sitting room and past the bar. Just before they made it to the bedroom, Scott stopped beside the chair at the head of the dining table. Scott nodded to it, and John sat. On the table, on their silver trays, sat a plate of oysters rockefeller and two steak suppers. The curtains to the balcony were open, the lights of the city twinkling like fairy lights. They shined like a halo behind Scott’s head as he sat facing John in the chair closest to him, making Scott look ethereal in the low light.

The food and the room and the company all looked incredible, and the only thing that could have made the gesture nicer would have been if John wasn’t paying for it, but in that moment, it didn’t much seem to matter. He had a nice meal with a beautiful, nearly naked man waiting for him. Who thought of him enough to pick out a tie that matched his eyes. And was actually right on the money.

“You know,” John said, reaching for an oyster. “Oysters are supposed to be an aphrodisiac.”

Scott smirked. “But you’re a doctor. You know better.”

John took a bite, returning the smile with a bit more mirth. “Do I? They seem to be working.”

Scott chuckled. “Placebo effect, obviously.”

“Or it could be the gorgeous man in his pants.”

The corner of Scott’s mouth twitched, a mild hue of pink highlighting his cheekbones. “Possibly.”

John smiled, unwrapping a set of silverware from its napkin as Scott plucked a green bean from his own plate and twirled it in his fingers. He sat back in the chair, one arm slung over the back of it, legs spread wide. The tie looked far too much like an arrow pointing down to what was still hidden in those pants, which John had to admit were far sexier than the knickers Scott wore the night they met. Not that those didn’t have their merits.

John’s gaze followed the line the tie persuaded him to as he cut into his steak. “How was shopping?”

Scott bit into the green bean and set the rest back onto the plate, propping his crossed feet at the edge of John’s chair. “Satisfactory. Your card is on the dresser.”

“Thanks.” John bit into the steak on his fork, humming at the taste. “It’s still warm.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Of course it is.”

“Of course it is,” John repeated to himself, smiling around his next bite of food. He ate a few more bites of dinner, trying not to be distracted by the toes flexing and curling at his side, but that was rather a lost cause. So, he set his silverware aside, bringing Scott’s top foot into his lap. He ran his fingernail up the middle of Scott’s sole, managing to keep his chuckle quiet as Scott’s foot curled in on itself. Oddly, he didn’t try to pull away, and John made it up to him by kneading his thumbs against Scott’s arch, smiling at the tiny groan from Scott’s throat.

Without looking up from his work, John asked, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“Not hungry,” Scott huffed.

John chuckled. “Then why order yourself a plate?”

Scott’s foot tugged and pushed in John’s grip as he shifted in his seat. “I was rather hoping some vigorous sex might make me hungry.”

John peered up through his lashes, delighted at the color on Scott’s cheeks and the way he gripped his chair as he stared at his foot in John’s hands. “Is that so?”

Scott nodded, his bottom lip gripped tight between his teeth.

John set Scott’s foot on his opposite thigh and picked up the other one, concentrating all his attention on the muscles under his fingertips. Scott’s feet were long and slender with toes to match. His nails were clean and short, pale and pink, but there were thick callouses on the balls and heels, probably from walking in those ridiculous boots. 

John slid his thumbs up the outside of Scott’s arch, working tension from the muscle and wishing he had some oil to ease the glide. Though he kept his eyes on the task at hand, he didn’t fail to notice the hitch in Scott’s breath or the way the toes of his right foot were curling against the inside of John’s thigh.

As if to press the issue, Scott slid his free foot up the inseam of John’s trousers, settling it over John’s groin. He didn’t move at first, just let the warmth from his body seep through the fabric. John’s cock nestled nicely against the inside curve of Scott’s arch, and it twitched as the warmth reached it.

After the day John had, he needed this. Already he felt more relaxed, as if the rest of his day was something separate. It was like it had happened to someone else. The stress and worry didn’t disappear exactly, but they didn’t seem important anymore. He was just a bloke having a lovely dinner and what would likely be an incredible shag. With a sigh, he settled against the chair back.

Scott curled his toes against John flies, adding just a touch of pressure that had John spreading his legs.

“You were meant to ravish me the second you got home.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But wouldn’t the food get cold?”

Scott’s eyebrow arched. “Awfully confident in your stamina.”

“I’ve never had any complaints.”

At that, John pulled Scott’s feet from his lap and let them land on either side of him. He slid off the chair, maneuvering around the edge of the table to kneel in between Scott’s spread legs. It put him eye level with Scott’s suprasternal notch and the enticing dip it created in his throat. But John looked up into his eyes and found him staring back, eyes alert and sparkling. One of his eyes had a little freckle in the iris, and John found himself unable to look away, pulled in like planet to a star.

God, John wanted to kiss him. He pressed his lips together, staring at that pouty bottom lip that was meant to be nibbled. John sighed and dipped his head to Scott’s throat. He pressed his lips to the place where neck met shoulder, just below the tie, and his tongue darted out for a taste, hotel soap and a hint of salt. He kissed up the length of Scott’s throat, imbuing the taste of Scott’s skin and leaving a wet trail to Scott’s pulse point.

Scott’s head dropped back, a moan rumbling through his throat and vibrating against John’s lips, and John’s heart clenched. How much of this was an act? Did Scott really want him, or was this playacting for pay? He tried to shake the thought away, pretend it didn’t matter. He ran his fingers through Scott’s silky hair--no product today--and grazed his teeth over Scott’s Adam’s apple. But the thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone. He didn’t want to continue if Scott didn’t want to. Sex didn’t have to be part of their deal.

John ran both hands through Scott’s hair one more time. His fingers rested at the base of Scott’s skull as his thumbs stroked over Scott’s temples.

Resting his forehead against Scott’s jaw, John said, “We can stop if you want to.”

“No.” Scott turned so his forehead rested against John’s. “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

John couldn’t help but smile, a wave of relief rushing over him, and curling his hand over Scott’s nape, he tilted his head up, seeking Scott’s lips with his own.

Before their lips could meet, Scott’s chin bumped into John’s nose, and the next thing John was aware of was Scott nibbling at his ear, his hands tugging John’s shirt out of his trousers. Though a huff escaped John’s nose before he could stop it, he let go. He let Scott set the pace, and a moment later, he was panting against Scott’s neck as deft fingers worked him through his trousers.

God, those fingers. John wanted to take each one his mouth and trace every contour with his tongue. He wanted to fellate them until Scott was begging. But somehow, his body wouldn’t comply. All he could do was breathe into the crook of Scott’s neck, his mouth slack, his cheek pressed to Scott’s shoulder. His hands roamed Scott’s legs, thumbs sweeping over patellae, palms sliding up and down thighs. The crisp hairs on Scott’s legs felt like static electricity on his hands. And Scott’s sharp intake of breath as John’s fingers slipped under the fabric covering his thighs was like the chorus of a nightingale.

“John,” Scott breathed, his hand stilling over John’s groin, his head falling back against the chair as his body slid down it.

John pressed open-mouthed kisses along Scott’s clavicle, and as John’s teeth grazed the bone, Scott’s breath shuddered from his mouth. His hands slid farther up Scott’s legs until his fingertips could trace the crux between thigh and groin. His fingers grazed over the close-trimmed hair of Scott’s bollocks, and God, how he wanted them on his tongue.

He dropped back, licking his lips as he eased Scott’s pants down his legs. And the way he tilted his hips. Was there any move that this man could make that wasn’t pure sex? No one in recent memory had turned him on the way Scott could. John’s vision grew hazy with it, his mouth watering, begging for Scott’s cock.

But, as John’s tongue traced the trail left by a drip of pre-ejaculate, Scott groaned, “Fuck me.”

“Oh, God yes,” John managed to moan in return, slipping his hands under Scott’s bum. As Scott lifted his hips at the insistence of John’s hands, John pressed his palms to Scott’s cheeks, pushing them apart. And with him there, heels of his hands braced on the sides of the chair, hips canted, legs spread, he looked like something out of _Flashdance_.

John tried not to giggle at the vision of water dumping over Scott’s body even as his libido screamed, _yes, yes!_ Scott in a white t-shirt, translucent fabric clinging to his skin, the dark outline of erect nipples. God. What a sight that would be.

John dropped his head to Scott’s groin, licking a long stripe with the flat of his tongue up from his cleft to the base of his testicles. Scott shuddered, his hips canting, lifting from John’s hands before settling onto them again, and John repeated the action. This time though, he started lower, wriggling the tip of his tongue between Scott’s cheeks before sweeping up.

At Scott’s next shudder, John whispered, “Gorgeous. Absolutely stunning.”

He dove back to Scott’s perineum, his tongue making the trip back and forth, back and forth. His own erection throbbed against the confines of his trousers, but John’s hands were too busy on Scott’s arse to do anything about it. He tried to carry on, wringing those beautiful sounds from Scott’s mouth, but the more that went on, the more his erection screamed for attention, the more he wanted to be inside Scott.

“Do you have any--?” John panted, unable to quite finish his sentence. “I don’t have any.”

“In my jacket.” Scott leapt from the chair, leaving John’s hands empty and far too light, and dashed for the bedroom.

John stared after him, his body still as he watched the muscles in Scott’s arse flex and contract. After a dumbfounded moment, John got to his feet and followed as quickly as he could in his current condition.

He got to the bedroom just in time to see Scott drop three foil packets onto the duvet and crawl in after them, his arse pushed high, his back arched like a preening cat. Transfixed on round arse, sinewy thighs, and the cock and balls that hung heavy between them, John stripped.

Before John could get half out of his clothes, Scott said, “Are you coming?”

“Yes,” John huffed, ripping his t-shirt over his head. “Just a minute.”

John jumped as Scott’s hand slapped against the headboard, his fingers gripping tight over the top. His back rolled, making the skull tattoo seem to smirk, as a groan rippled through him, though this one sounded more frustrated than the others.

“Hurry,” Scott growled just as John struggled to slip free the button at the top of his trousers.

“I am.”

John hunched over himself, his fingers fumbling to free the damned button from the damned hole. When did these pants get so tight?

“There,” he breathed as the button slipped free, and he dropped his trousers and pants in one fell swoop, stepping out of them with a minimal amount of stumbling on the way to the bed.

But then he stopped, his jaw dropping through the floor, his hands falling loose at his side. From between Scott’s legs, John saw long fingers working over the length of Scott’s cock. His back undulated in concert with it, his head dipping down as rough pants filled the room. Dear God.

Though John would swear that he wasn’t moving, his knees came to land on the duvet, his hands balling up fabric as they pulled his body forward. He pressed his lips to Scott’s coccyx before turning to lay his cheek against Scott’s lower back, stubble skating over smooth skin as he surged forward on his knees. His stomach slid against Scott’s arse until his cock nestled beneath it, Scott’s fingers bumping John’s glans on the downstroke.

Scott sighed, dropping to his elbow and then resting on his face and chest. “It’s about time.”

John chuckled even as he scrambled for the packets, struggled to read the labels enough to know what was in each. “Are you always this impatient?”

“When the situation warrants.”

“Aha,” John said as he isolated the lube and ripped it open with his teeth. He squeezed out a bit too much and spread the excess between Scott’s cheeks.

“Yes,” Scott hissed, pressing back against John’s hand. “Do it, John. Fuck me into the mattress.”

“Shit.” John circled a slick finger over Scott’s arsehole, his tongue dragging across his lower lip as he watched. “You can’t say that kind of thing to me.”

“Why? Because you might stop dilly-dallying and actually-- _Fuck_.”

His last word came out in a groan as John pressed his finger in, sliding straight to his knuckle and circling his fingertip over Scott’s prostate. Sometimes doctor training really came in handy.

Scott was so tight. John’s finger slid easily in and out, Scott’s muscles rippling around him with every stroke of his prostate, but the squeeze was exquisite. John had the fleeting thought that Scott must do kegel exercises, but he shook it away. That was not a line of thought he wanted to go down at the moment.

Instead, he pulled his finger free, to the soundtrack of Scott’s growl, and squeezed more lube onto a second one. He circled his fingers once more before pressing in, relishing the slide and squeeze as he pressed inexorably towards Scott’s prostate.

As John’s fingers slid back and forth against the bundle of nerves, Scott’s wrecked moans broke off enough for him to say. “I don’t-- I don’t need that. Just do it.”

John stilled for a moment, his heart rate spiking, before pulling his fingers free. “Did you not like it?”

“No,” Scott huffed. “I do, but… I don’t need it.”

John paused, his left hand rubbing circles on Scott’s arse cheek. “Tell me what you want.”

Scott’s hands fanned out by his head before clenching in the duvet. He closed his eyes, rocking back against John’s hand. Oh, he looked so desperate, so undone, and John felt a surge of affection. He wanted Scott to have exactly what he wanted. Wanted to make him feel good. He wanted it so bad that it made his toes curl.

“I want your cock,” Scott finally said, one hand releasing the duvet to reach back to John, groping for John’s hip. Once he found it, Scott squeezed, the heel of his hand pressing into the dip by John’s hipbone, the fingers urging him forward. His eyes, which had been squeezed shut, fluttered open to peer sideways at John. “Please.”

John shivered, the power of Scott’s desire, no matter how sincere, zinging through him like an electric shock. The world slowed, and never mind how quickly he grabbed for the condom, ripped it open, and rolled it on, it felt like an eternity. His own fingers slicking himself lit him afire, too much and not enough all at once.

And when he lined himself up, God, the sight. He rubbed the head of his cock over Scott’s pink, perfect hole, pushing forward just enough to feel the resistance before pulling back, letting his glans slide over Scott’s perineum.

“For God’s sake, John. Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”

John’s body shocked him as a laugh ripped through it, and after a moment to compose himself, he had mercy. Running one hand down Scott’s spine, the ridges of ink bumping his fingertips, he grabbed a hip in the other and pressed forward, pulling Scott back against him.

If John thought Scott felt tight around his fingers, he had another thing coming. The squeeze around his cock was magnificent, and he fought to keep his movements gentle, rocking in and out, slowly pushing farther forward. His thumbs circled Scott’s venusian dimples as he watched himself disappear into Scott’s body.

That was, until Scott reached back and jerked John forward, burying him inside Scott’s body. John groaned, shuddering at the overwhelming pleasure of it. He pushed forward, his balls sliding against Scott’s.

“Scott,” he huffed. “You feel so good.”

John’s back hunched, his head nearly falling to the center of Scott’s back as he thrust, his hips moving without input from his brain. He struggled to gain control, savor the moment, but it was just too good. His body wouldn’t listen. Rough moans wrenched their way from his mouth. His hands roamed Scott’s body as he called him things like, “Gorgeous,” or “Amazing,” or “Brilliant.”

Through the haze, John caught sight of the tie, still around Scott’s neck. As he rocked into Scott again and again, he grabbed the tails of the tie and spun them until they draped over Scott’s back. God, but that color looked incredible against his skin, the sides of the tattoo peeking out like a cheeky silhouette. His fingers skated down tense back muscles, silky skin and silken tie blurring together to his touch, and then he bent to kiss the skin on either side, his hands curling over Scott’s hips.

Scott melted beneath him, his wordless moans soon forming around John’s name. His legs shook and trembled, and John reached beneath him. He wrapped his fingers around Scott’s cock, his movements thrusting Scott into his fist.

“Go on,” John said. “Come for me. Please, let me feel it.”

After a moment, Scott’s body stilled, his cock pulsing and jumping in John’s hand, his interior muscles squeezing and undulating over John’s cock, and John followed, collapsing over Scott’s back.

John lay there, listening to the rush of air in and out of Scott’s lungs as he came down. He nuzzled into the tie, pushed it aside with his nose to get to the skin beneath.

With a shudder, Scott breathed John’s name, and his body relaxed beneath John’s. John let himself drape over Scott, his fingers running through Scott’s hair. He had no immediate plans to move, but it wasn’t long before the cling of latex against his softening cock reminded him that he had to. So, with a huff, he gripped the base of the condom and pulled out.

Kissing Scott between the shoulder blades, John waddled to the bathroom, disposing of the condom and wetting a flannel for Scott. When he came back out, Scott was sprawled on his back, a dazed expression on his face.

“Flannel?” John asked, holding it out.

Scott lifted one hand straight up, holding his hand open, and John tossed the flannel. He dressed into his pyjamas as Scott lazily swiped at his abdomen.

“Did you buy pyjamas?” John asked.

Scott hummed in assent, still looking a bit dazed, and John smiled.

“Well, best put them on.” He squeezed Scott’s big toe. “Don’t want to let dinner go to waste. Big day tomorrow.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yes. We have a polo game to go to. Have you ever been to one?”

Scott launched himself from the bed, disappearing into the bathroom. “Of course I have.”

John chuckled. “Of course he has.”

He pulled a t-shirt over his head as he went back into the sitting room. Sitting down at the table, he lifted his knife and fork before tossing them aside. He picked up the steak in both hands and ripped into it with his canines.

“Barbaric,” came Scott’s voice.

John looked up, smiling around his food, and immediately choked. Scott was still nude, waltzing into the room like it was nothing.

Scott settled into his chair, watching John cough before finally saying, “All right?”

John swallowed, the under-chewed food going down hard. “You’re still naked.”

Scott bit into a green bean. “Problem?”

“Suppose not.”

With a smirk, Scott propped his feet on the edge of John’s chair. “So, tell me more about this polo match.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, iamjohnlock4life & monikakrasnorada.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it! Since I messed up the posting schedule, I will be posting the next chapter today as well.


	13. Well done! Whoop whoop whoop

Sherlock tugged at the grey cashmere clinging to his skin as they stepped out of the car. “What are we doing here?”

“Business,” John said.

“Mingling,” Sherlock retorted.

“Yes, well, business mingling.”

 _What bullshit_ , Sherlock thought. It was just more keeping-up-appearances nonsense. Making sure you said the right things to the right people. Stifling. Exhausting. Boring. How could people stand such inanities? Could their brains really be so small? 

He kept the thought to himself. However, the scowl he tried to keep from his face must have shown because John grabbed his hands. 

“Come on, it’s going to be great.”

“And what happens if someone recognizes me?” Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

John chuckled, casting a look over to the gathering crowd, but the laugh caught in his throat as he looked at Sherlock’s face. “Come on, you can’t be serious.”

“It’s something you should have considered before we got here at the least.”

“No one’s going to recognize you. They don’t spend a lot of time on Hollywood Boulevard.”

Sherlock stood tall, jutting out his chin. “You did.”

John brought Sherlock’s hands to his mouth, kissing his knuckles. “And thank God I did. Now, let’s go.”

Sherlock followed, his hand still in John’s, as they made their way across the lawn to the playing field. He wasn’t completely appeased. Events like these always put him ill at ease even without the added risk, but it would do for the moment.

“Though,” John muttered in Sherlock’s direction, “I do wish you had worn a shirt under that jumper.”

Sherlock smirked. “And why is that?”

“I can see the outline of your nipples.”

“Do you find my nipples offensive?”

John glanced over at Sherlock’s chest, his tongue darting out at the corner of his mouth and sweeping across his lips. “Not exactly.”

“Well”--Sherlock sniffed--“that’s your problem.”

They walked the rest of the way there in silence, though a smile twitched at the corner of John’s mouth, threatening to spill over into laughter at any moment, and Sherlock found his own smile insisting to make an appearance.

However, his delight was interrupted when they stopped at the announcer’s booth in front of a pair of women who looked annoyingly similar.

“Well, Doctor Watson,” one of them cooed.

“Good morning, Gwen,” John said, kissing the proffered hand. “Scott, this is Gwen and Gretchen Olsen, the wives of two of the most prominent surgeons in the state.”

“Brothers?” Sherlock asked.

“No, silly,” said Gwen. “We’re sisters. We wouldn’t dare give up our maiden names.”

Sherlock cursed himself. There was always something. “Of course. My mistake.”

“Pardon me,” John cut in. “I see a waiter. Scott, something to drink?”

Sherlock nodded. “Surprise me.”

Gretchen gave him a once over before giving a sneer and a derisive snort, turning back to her place in front of the microphone. Sherlock smirked, giving her his own appraising glance. She wouldn’t be so haughty if she knew Sherlock knew about her affair (with the tennis instructor, how banal) or opiate problem. The words pressed up the back of his throat, and his lips squeezed together to hold them back. John would surely be upset if he came back to find Sherlock getting slapped in the face and possibly kicked out.

He started at the feel of delicate fingers at his elbow, tugging him over and down to Gwen’s level, stooping them together like children sharing a secret. As she walked them away from the booth, she said, “Don’t mind her.”

“I don’t,” Sherlock replied, following her insistent grip.

“So, tell me.” She curled her hand over his forearm as if he were escorting her, though she was quite insistent which direction they took. “You two seem to be close. Is he seeing anyone? I have a friend who would be perfect for him.”

“You want to set him up.”

She laughed, a genuine, hearty thing. “Of course, silly. He’s the ungettable get. Everybody’s trying to snag him.”

Sherlock spotted John walk towards him only to be waylaid by a tall brunette woman, and he pushed back the sudden spike of jealousy. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, though I can’t blame them. He’s a brilliant shag. Pardon me.”

Sherlock crossed the lawn in long strides, and John shifted the glasses of wine into one hand so he could lay his other on the small of the brunette’s back and kiss her on the cheek. She ran her own palm down the sleeve of John’s leather jacket, standing back to get a good look at it. Such a ploy. Sure, it was a nice jacket, the leather soft and supple, but there was nothing that special about it. God, she was looking at a man in a checked shirt and corduroys as if he were wearing the most avant garde fashions.

When John saw Sherlock marching across the lawn, he raised his eyebrows, motioning with the wine glasses towards Sherlock. He said something to his companion, and she turned around, a bright smile on her face.

“Scott,” John said, handing Sherlock a glass of wine. “I’d like you to meet my sister-in-law, Clara.”

As Sherlock held out his hand for Clara, another woman sidled up, jostling into her. She had her blonde hair pulled back in a bun, making her look severe even though her features were soft. Familial resemblance to John. Sister or perhaps cousin. She smiled wickedly up at Sherlock.

“And this is my sister, Harry,” John interceded.

“Hello,” Harry said, thrusting out her own hand. “You must be the date I’ve been hearing so much about.”

“I must be.” Sherlock took her hand and let his be shaken. She had quite the grip.

“He’s a pretty one, John,” Harry said, still looking at Sherlock. Then, nodding her head towards John, she continued, “How did he ever land a bloke like you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, a bit taken aback at being treated like an object in this setting. Which only put into sharp relief how quickly he had grown accustomed to the different treatment in what was supposed to be an assumed role. _Stupid._

“He’s brilliant, too,” John cut in, squeezing Sherlock’s elbow. “Do your thing.”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to John, Sherlock’s nose crinkling and brows knitting together. “My thing?”

“Yeah.” John smiled before turning back to the ladies. “He can look at you and know you your whole life story. It’s amazing.”

“I don’t know. I observe.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched as he took a sip of wine. “Either way, it’s incredible.”

Sherlock resisted the urge to look down at his hands, keeping his gaze steady on John. “I’d rather not.”

John looked taken aback, but he said, “All right. No problem. Shall we find a place to watch the match?”

“Hang on.” Harry held out a tremulous hand. “I want to see this thing.”

“Harry--”

“Hey, now, you can’t just tease me like that. I wanna see it.”

John and Clara exchanged a look, and John started again with, “Harry--”

“That’s quite all right, John,” Sherlock said, the ire in him rising like a geyser as he glanced between Harry and Clara. “You two have been together for awhile. About four years dating and three years married, and you’re feeling the seven year itch quite hard. Most likely, it has to do with Harry’s drinking problem, but there is also the small consideration of Harry’s worry that her bisexual wife, who once dated her brother, is going to cheat on her. Quite unfounded. She’s loyal to a fault.”

At that, Sherlock glanced among the blank stares until Clara’s hand went over her mouth. Her eyes went wide, shining as she looked down at Harry. Sherlock followed her gaze. Oh dear, Harry was getting angry. Time to retreat.

Sherlock smiled wide. “If you’ll just pardon me, I need the little boys room.”

A few paces into his escape, Sherlock heard John’s voice call after him, but he didn’t stop.

***

Separated from John and his family, Sherlock roamed the grounds, nursing his wine as he moved through and finally away from the crowd. After a while, he made his way back to the stables, still separate from the crowd, but close enough that he could hear the bustle through the dogtrot.

He wandered in from the side away from the action, peering into the mostly empty stalls. But near the end was a chestnut brown horse with a white diamond between the eyes, nibbling hay from a trough.

“Hello there,” Sherlock said, approaching the stall. “Aren’t you beautiful? Is it all right if I say hello to you?”

Sherlock held his hand out for the horse to smell, and after a moment, he reached out the other to scratch the horse on the forehead. The horse didn’t seem too moved by Sherlock’s presence, but it put up with him without a fuss, letting Sherlock pet it’s head and neck until it was time to lean down for more hay. Sherlock watched it eat, feeling calmer than he had all day since leaving the hotel room.

“Oh, Scott. Hi,” came a voice nearby, making Sherlock jump.

“Peter,” Sherlock replied, swallowing in an attempt to slow down his heartrate.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Peter held out a hand as if he was dealing with a spooked animal. His hair was wind whipped, his polo uniform stained with grass. “Do you have much experience with horses?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Some.”

“Well”--Peter crossed to the stall--“this here is Poppy.”

As if responding to her name, the horse’s head bobbed up from the trough, her teeth grinding away at the hay. Sherlock scratched her on the neck, and he could feel Peter’s gaze prickling at the back of his neck. It made him nervous. It shouldn’t make him nervous. Why was it making him nervous?

“Are you here with Dr. Watson?” Peter asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed, dropping his hand from Poppy’s cheek to saunter over to the doorway to the stables. Leaning on the frame, he squinted out at the people milling and trodding down the field.

As Peter’s lingering presence began to prickle at Sherlock again, Peter asked, “Is everything all right there?”

Sherlock shrugged, rolling his eyes. He spotted John, and a moment later, he saw Harry sidle up to him. She handed John a drink and kept one for herself.

“Listen,” came Peter’s voice, and Sherlock’s gaze snapped around to find him scratching the back of his neck. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“An apology? For what?”

“You’re right. It’s my father who owes you the apology.”

Sherlock stood upright. “What is it exactly he’s meant to apologize for?”

“Oh, you didn’t know.” He made the spooked animal gesture again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Don’t be stupid. What did he do?”

Peter swallowed, running his fingers through his hair. “He’s… Well, he’s been spreading rumors about you and Dr. Watson.”

Sherlock glanced over at John, panic spiking in his chest. Harry was laughing at something, and John was scowling at her. Sherlock’s head whipped back around to Peter.

“What has he been saying?”

“Well, he’s insinuated”--Peter bit his lip, scratching the inside of his elbow--“that you were trying to seduce me.”

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Peter laughed, a little too loud and a little to high, looking out over the pitch. _Oh._ “Right. Yeah. I mean, you and Doctor Watson are… Aren’t you?”

Sherlock, biting his bottom lip, took an oblique look at Peter. If the circumstances were different, Sherlock would know just what to do. He’d turn on the charm, lace the conversation with innuendo, subtly suggest that Peter could have him for the right price. But, that would mean blowing his cover, putting John’s business at risk. It would be so easy. Peter’s attraction was obvious, and his social awkwardness most likely made it hard for him to meet people. He was perfect for Sherlock. A client like him could get Sherlock out of that dump he lived in for good.

But, when Sherlock opened his mouth, all he could bring himself to say was, “Yes.”

Peter smiled, his lips pressed tight together, though the disappointment showed in his eyes. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to apologize for my dad--”

“Don’t apologize for him.”

“--It’s not really about you or Doctor Watson anyway. He’s just having trouble dealing with the fact that he won’t have any grandchildren.”

“You can still have children.”

Peter squeezed at the nape of his own neck, letting out one huff of a laugh as he looked over at Poppy. “I was trying to be tactful.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s gaze found John again, who was still in quiet but intense conversation with Harry. John glanced up and caught Sherlock’s gaze. He smiled and waved, and Sherlock raised his hand back to him.

He started at the feeling of fingers in his hair, spinning his head back around to Peter.

“Sorry,” Peter said, pulling his fingers away with a bit of straw grasped between them. “This was stuck in your hair.”

Sherlock took it from Peter and spun it between his thumb and index finger. “Thank you.”

“Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you had a roll in the hay.” Peter’s laugh quickly petered out, and he wiped his hands on his trousers. He gestured towards the pitch. “Looks like they’re about to start up again. I should go.”

“All right.” Sherlock pushed off the doorframe only to feel his jumper snag on the wood.

“Here. Let me help you with that.” Peter stepped to Sherlock’s side, laying one hand on Sherlock’s arm as the other swept between the shirt and the wood. “There you go. All better.”

“Thank you.”

Peter nodded, giving Sherlock one last little smile before he turned to go. “Oh, hello, Doctor Watson.”

“Doctor Dimmock,” John said as he approached, holding out his hand. “How are you today?”

Peter shook his hand. “Very well. How are you?”

“All right. I’m glad to see you play today.”

“Thanks.” Peter cleared his throat. “Me too. I’d better get back to it. Good to see you both.”

John watched as Peter mounted his horse and rode off, the smile on John’s face never quite reaching his eyes, before turning to Sherlock. “Where’d you wander off to?”

“Around.”

“What were you and Peter talking about?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Nothing much.”

John scratched his jaw, squinting up at the sun. “All right.” Smiling that same smile, he clasped his hands behind his back. “Shall we go watch the match?”

“Of course.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder across the lawn. Though their knuckles brushed by each other, John didn’t move to take Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock pushed down the anxiety trying to climb up his throat, forcing a passive expression on his face.

A few steps from the crowd lining up at the pitch, John grabbed Sherlock’s elbow, pulling him aside. “Listen, can you do me a favor?”

“What favor?”

“Go apologize to Harry.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, his lips attempting to purse. In Sherlock’s opinion, Harry deserved everything she got, but even he knew when the trouble stirred wouldn’t be worth it. “Fine.”

“Thanks. I’ll go get us drinks. Do you want anything to eat?”

“No. Thank you.”

As John walked away, he pointed to Sherlock’s left. Sherlock followed the line of John’s finger to find Harry, who was facing the pitch, sipping at a glass of champagne.

Once Sherlock managed his way through the crowd, he said, “Harry.”

Harry turned like she was startled, which was ridiculous. She obviously knew Sherlock was coming. “Ah, Scott. So good to see you again.”

She turned back to the pitch, watching the match as it started up again. They stood in silence for a bit until a play rose some polite applause.

“Well done,” Harry shouted and then turned to Sherlock. “Have you ever been to a polo match before?”

“Yes, I have.”

Harry chuckled. “Oh, really. Seems unlikely.”

Sherlock stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he looked to Harry. “How’s that?”

“It’s just”--Harry shrugged, taking a sip from her glass--“It seems like an awfully long way from Hollywood Boulevard.”

Sherlock’s heart rate spiked, but he kept his face placid. “Sorry?”

“You heard me.”

Sherlock’s jaw clenched, and he took a deep breath. What the hell was John playing at here? Why bother with the facade if he was just going to tell people? And why send him straight into the lion’s den?

“I believe my brother sent you over here for a reason.”

Sherlock looked down at her to find wicked glee on her face. It made him want to rip her apart. “He sent me to apologize.”

“Oh, we can forget about that.” She took his arm, pulling him close. “I rather think we’re even. Don’t you?”

Sherlock looked down at their joined arms, revulsed. “Excuse me.”

At that, he disengaged himself from Harry’s arm and walked away. He paused as he heard a chuckle come from behind him, but he kept moving. She wasn’t the real culprit here.

 


	14. I want my money. I wanna get out of here.

As Scott trailed behind John into the hotel room, John asked, “Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Scott pushed past John to the bar area, where he yanked a bottle of water from the mini bar. He slammed the fridge shut and twisted the bottle cap off with much more force than necessary.

“Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

“Astute observation, John.” Scott emphasized the John, and John felt that he wasn’t using the moniker as a name.

John huffed, tossing the keycard onto the bar. “What is it?”

“Why did you tell Harry what I do?”

“Oh my God,” John muttered, running his hand over his face. “She wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“Oh, well”--Scott put on a wide, fake smile--“that makes it all better.”

“She told me that she wouldn’t mention anything if you apologized.”

“Then you’ll be pleased to know that she kept to the letter of her agreement, if not the intent.” Scott dropped the half-full bottle into the sink, striding into the bedroom.

John followed to find Scott stripping off his jumper and digging through a pile of dirty clothes. “What are you doing?”

“Changing into my own clothes.”

John sighed. “Don’t be melodramatic. What else was I supposed to do? She thought you were involved in some sort of corporate espionage.”

Scott found the ripped t-shirt and threw it over his head. “Why would she think that?”

“Well, you and Peter seemed awfully friendly.” John’s fist clenched at his side, and he swung it behind him, grabbing it with his other hand.

Scott popped up from where he was stooped, his hair a wild frizz. He paused, giving John a once over before saying, “Jealous?”

“Do I have reason to be?”

Scott stalked towards John. “What business is that of yours? There’s nothing in our contract about exclusivity.”

John held his ground even as Scott invaded John’s personal space. Actually, invaded was an understatement. “Are you interested in Peter?”

“He’s certainly interested in me.”

John stared at Scott’s eyes, taking a deep breath to calm him enough so he wouldn’t yell when he asked, “Did you make any arrangements with him?”

Scott narrowed his eyes at John, his eyebrows pulling together for just a moment. “Is that why you told her? Because you were jealous?”

Scott didn’t wait for an answer. He just scoffed and went back to his rummaging, apparently assuming his assumption was correct. And John certainly wasn’t going to confirm it for him. So, John waited, watching Scott throw his shorts and knickers on the bed. In one deft motion, Scott undid his belt and shoved his trousers and pants down to his ankles.

John looked at the floor as Scott stepped out of them, leaving clothes and shoes in a pool.

“Now you let me have my modesty?” Scott accused. “Look at me.”

John looked up, his gaze unwavering from Scott’s eyes, but Scott didn’t move to continue getting dressed.

“You paid for it. You might as well look your fill.”

John’s gaze flitted down to Scott’s groin, already covered with the knickers, and though the sight hit him like a punch in the gut, he said, “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what, hmm?” Scott raised an eyebrow as he zipped his shorts. “A prostitute?”

“Look, I’m sorry, all right? Can we drop it?” John stretched the fingers of his left hand.

Scott closed on John again. “Just because you pay for my presence doesn’t mean you can disrespect me.”

John laughed. “Disrespect you?” He tilted his head to the side. “Just exactly how did I disrespect you? You are a prostitute. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”

Scott stood impossibly taller, staring down his nose at John. Somehow, he managed to look haughty dressed in tatty cutoffs, torn t-shirt, and socks. With a sniff, he turned, marching over to his boots.

He sat on the bed, pulling on a boot. “I think it’s time we parted company. I’d like my money now.”

John sniffed, doing his best to ignore the clench around his heart. Swallowing hard, he crossed to the safe, silently entering the code. He pulled out the money and set it in a neat stack on the dresser.

Without looking at Scott, he said, “That’s only forty-two hundred. I haven’t had a chance to get to the bank yet, but I can probably get them to cash a check at the front desk.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

John nodded, sniffed again. “All right.”

Glancing at Scott from the corner of his eye, John left the bedroom, collapsing into a chair facing away from it. He rubbed both hands over his face, letting out a long breath through his mouth. He felt so tired, like all the air had gone out of him. His stomach roiled.

From behind him, John heard Scott mutter something under his breath that sounded like, “Send it.” And then he scoffed and rushed past John, slamming the door behind him. John’s brows furrowed. What did _send it_ mean? Was that even what he said?

John peered behind him and saw the stack of bills still sitting undisturbed on the dresser. If someone had asked him later why he followed Scott, he wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint the reason, but in the moment, it felt imperative. He couldn’t let Scott leave yet. It felt too much like something was being ripped away.

Grabbing the keycard from the bar, John hurried to the door and threw it open to find Scott still waiting for the elevator. He was in the midst of lighting a cigarette when John opened the door, and he looked up when he heard it. Neither of them said anything. Instead, John watched as Scott finished lighting his cigarette, took a drag, and blew it out.

“You’re not supposed to smoke here.”

Scott took another drag. “Have me arrested.”

John stepped out of the room, approaching in a way he might if Scott were a cornered puppy, as Scott pretended to ignore him. “Look,” John said. “I’m sorry.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “For?’

“I shouldn’t have told Harry. It was disrespectful.”

Scott’s lips started to form a pout, which he hid quite well, but John spotted it anyway. “And?”

“I had no right to be jealous. Come back?”

“Nothing’s going to happen between Peter and me. Unlike some, I have respect for our arrangement.”

John did his best not to smile in relief, even as the accusation hit its mark. “Fair enough. Will you come back?”

Scott shoved the burning end of his cigarette into the soil of a potted plant. “Fine.”

“Thank you,” John barely managed to get out before Scott pulled the keycard from John’s pocket and walked past. He unlocked the door and strode on, making John catch the door before it closed on him. He shrugged out of his jacket, tossing it on a chair on his way to the bedroom. John waited in the living area until Scott came back out, this time wearing a pair of cotton pyjama bottoms and an inside-out t-shirt.

He looked so soft and vulnerable, his hair still in a frizz, and he didn’t quite seem to know what to do with his hands. John smiled and crossed the room. He stood in front of Scott, reaching out before he knew where to touch him. The arms felt too platonic, the hands too personal, the hips too sexual. After a moment and a small huff of laughter from Scott, John settled on the waist.

He kissed Scott’s jaw. “Do you want to do something tonight? We can go anywhere you want.”

Scott looked into John’s eyes, his face pensive. After a moment that was a bit too long, he said, “I want to go dancing.”

 _Well, shit._ “I don’t know of any places to go dancing. I could call the concierge.”

“No need,” Scott said, backing out from John’s grip. “I know a place.”

With a wicked glint in his eye, Scott disappeared into the bedroom.

***

“Do you want a drink?” John yelled over the music.

Scott leaned down to say into John’s ear. “Do you really think I need my inhibitions lowered, John?”

He pulled away with a crooked smirk, and John suppressed a shiver. Though Scott tried to lead him by the hand to the dance floor, John pulled him back. He wrapped a hand around Scott’s nape to draw his ear to John’s mouth.

“Well, I do. Come with me?”

Scott shook his head. “I’ll meet you on the floor.”

John nodded, spinning on his heel to wrestle his way to the bar. How could a place be so crowded in the middle of the week? And while he was on the subject, how did he get talked into coming here in the first place? This wasn’t his scene by any stretch of the imagination. He was still in the shirt he wore to the polo match. He’d only traded out his trousers for jeans. Several of the men he passed were shirtless, and to a point, he could understand why. It was sweltering.

“Double whiskey with a beer back, please,” John yelled as he fished his wallet from his back pocket. The barman nodded and went to work.

After a moment, John felt a presence at his side. He looked over to find a young man, who had hair an alarming shade of teal and glitter on his eyelids to match.

“Hey, Daddy,” the man said, and John felt lucky that his drink hadn’t arrived because he would have been choking on it.

“I’m here with someone,” John replied.

“That’s not a problem.”

The barman set the glasses down with a thunk, and John traded them for his credit card. He gulped down the whiskey in one go and grabbed the beer.

“It’s a problem for me,” John said as he escaped towards the dance floor.

He drank his beer as quickly as he could comfortably manage as he searched for Scott. John found him in the thick of it, already dancing as if no one was around him. God, the way he moved. It was languid and sensual, but it seemed completely natural, unpracticed. He wasn’t trying to attract anyone or turn them on--this wasn’t the striptease on that first night. He was losing himself in the music, and that was far sexier. 

While this was as far from John’s wheelhouse as possible, Scott was right in his element. John wondered if Scott had ever brought a client here before, but of course he probably had. He probably found clients here. It was stupid to think that he was getting a glimpse at Scott that other clients hadn’t seen.

So, as John strolled out to meet Scott at the center of the dance floor, he pushed the thought aside. Tonight, he wasn’t going to think about work; he wasn’t going to think about his sister or the Dimmocks. He was going to shut it all off and have some fun, damn it.

Once John reached Scott, he stood watching, caught up in the movements. He felt like a small child waiting outside the spin of double-dutch ropes, unsure how to jump in. Luckily, with a smirk, Scott reached out and yanked John to him by the waist. John stumbled forward, catching himself on Scott’s biceps, and he laughed. Scott chuckled with him, something John experienced more by touch than by sound.

Scott’s hands dropped to John’s hips, guiding them to the rhythm of the music. Or at least, John figured it was with the music’s rhythm. He was too caught up in the warring emotions of reveling in Scott’s presence and body and feeling like an old fogey. But as Scott kept moving, his hands roaming John’s hips and waist and arse, everything outside the two of them faded away. John couldn’t care about being the oldest person in here by a good decade. He couldn’t care about being dressed wrong or not knowing how to dance. The world narrowed to the thumping beat and Scott’s hands on his body, Scott’s body beneath his hands.

Scott’s breath ruffled the hair at John’s temple, and then John felt Scott’s mouth at his ear, forcing the air from John’s lungs as effectively as something slamming into his chest. He tilted his head, offering himself up for whatever Scott had in mind. Smiling against John’s skin, Scott tugged at the back of John’s shirt, pulling until it was free of John’s trousers. He slipped his hand underneath, fingertips teasing at John’s spine.

“Care to join me in the men’s room?”

Even though his breath rushed in and out, even though his heart raced and his groin heated, John pressed his mouth to Scott’s ear. “We don’t have to. We can just dance if you want.”

At that, Scott grabbed John’s hand, guiding it to the front of his sinfully tight jeans. With Scott’s hand guiding him, John’s fingertips traced the outline of Scott’s cock, hard and hot and trapped against his body. He rolled his cheek against John’s, the rub of stubble against stubble raising goosebumps on John’s skin, until his mouth was once more against John’s ear.

“You tell me what I want.”

“Oh, God,” John huffed, pressing his palm to Scott’s groin. He nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

He felt the curl of lips against his cheek, and then Scott was grabbing his wrist, pulling him towards the loo. John stumbled, having to trot behind him to keep up with Scott’s long strides.

Scott busted through the door, not breaking stride as they made their way to an open stall. Scott stepped in first and yanked John in after him before closing the door on them both. He spun to face away from John, bending his knees to press his arse against John’s groin. John huffed, his hips canting instinctively forward, his hands grasping at Scott hips. His hands roamed Scott’s arse, relishing the curve of it against his palms, the way the jeans clung to it. It made the sight and feel of it more obscene than if he were wearing nothing.

God, John wanted to see his face. He nudged at Scott’s hips, urging him around until they were face to face. John stared into Scott’s eyes, the bright color of them shocking in the shadow of the harsh fluorescents. Their breaths mixed, their mouths so close that John could feel the presence of Scott’s like a buzz against his lips. He wanted to kiss them. He wanted to feel Scott’s mouth against his, to feel their tongues touch and caress, to taste him, to nibble at that pouty lower lip. But, licking his lips, holding his tongue tight between them as it retreated, John swayed backwards and dropped to his knees.

If he couldn’t kiss Scott’s mouth, he would take the second best. The tip of his nose slid against denim, tracing from the base of Scott’s cock to the tip, and he gripped the button of Scott’s jeans. Slipping it loose, he dragged down the zip. He could feel the pressure of Scott’s cock urging it open, and he kept it slow, savoring the feeling.

As soon as the zip was all the way down, John reached past the flies, sliding his hand between trousers and pants to rub Scott’s erection. Scott’s hands flew to the partitions at either side, landing at the top with a thunk that probably startled the occupants at either side. John couldn’t quite hold back a laugh as he shimmied Scotts trousers and pants down his hips. He imagined Scott was making some sort of indignant face, but he didn’t bother looking. He was too caught up with the sight of Scott’s cock bobbing free from its confines, of cotton and denim stretched around his thighs.

Gripping the base, John laid the flat of his tongue against Scott’s frenulum only to hear from above him, “Wait.”

John sat back on his heels and looked up.

Scott’s chest was heaving, but he said, “Condom.”

John frowned for just a moment before replying, “What about the other--”

“That was an error I don’t intend to repeat.”

“Did you bring one?”

Scott nodded towards the exit. “There’s a machine by the door.”

“All right.” John struggled to his feet, and Scott helped him up. As John dug for change in his pocket, he continued, “Be right back.”

John walked to the vending machine feeling both embarrassed and proud. _Yes, this old fuddy duddy pulled, and he’s more gorgeous than any of you._ Even with his cheeks burning, John smirked as he deposited his quarters in the machine. He surveyed the options, deciding on a flavored variety. He much preferred the taste of skin on his tongue, but he’d settle for blueberry.

He hurried back to the stall with the packet gripped between his fingers.

Scott waited for him inside. His pants and trousers were still around his thighs, his spread legs stretching them to their limits, and his hands gripped the top of the stall. The only difference from when John left was that Scott’s shirt was rucked up in the front. And wasn’t that a sight to behold. It just made John want to…

John stooped, pushing up the hem of Scott’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger, and he licked a long line up the center of Scott’s abdomen. He smiled at the sharp intake of breath above him, spurred on by it. Bringing up his other hand, condom wrapper still gripped between his middle and index fingers, he pushed more fabric aside until Scott’s torso was exposed to the underarms. He took in the sight--abdominals contracting on aborted breaths, nipples piqued with the exposure to the cool air, the trail of hair from Scott’s stomach thickening on its way down to his groin.

“Gorgeous,” John breathed, stooping once again, this time to close his lips over a nipple, flick it with his tongue.

“Yes,” Scott hissed. “Do it again.”

John closed the distance between them, hands coming to rest on Scott’s waist as John grazed his teeth over Scott’s nipple, sucking and laving at it until Scott’s knees threatened to give out. Pulling away, he blew on the wet skin. God, what a wonder.

John rolled his thumbs over both nipples. “Are they always this sensitive?”

“Usually.”

John chuckled, focusing his attention on the other side. “I bet the cashmere felt lovely.”

“Yes,” Scott huffed. “Yes.”

As John set to work, he felt Scott snatch the condom from between John’s fingers. John didn’t pay it much mind, preferring to concentrate on the skin under his tongue. Scott’s arms snaked between them, and John was only vaguely aware of the movement until he felt Scott’s hands on his shoulders, pushing down. Though John wouldn’t exactly say Scott forced him to his knees, he pushed with more pressure than John expected, making him huff a laugh against Scott’s chest before acquiescing.

Once there, the alarming shade of blue of the condom somehow did not make Scott’s cock any less appetizing. John’s mouth watered, and though he wished he could feel the drips of precome against his tongue, he would not be deterred. He licked his lips, letting the tip of Scott’s cock slide along them as John debated whether to tease or dive in. But, the wrecked shudder of breath above him made the decision easy, and John dived in, sucking Scott’s cock into his mouth and trapping it between his tongue and soft palate. Scott’s cock twitched, the tip pressing against the roof of John’s mouth, and John moaned around it. Oh, he could do this all day, but he wanted so badly for Scott to come.

He bobbed his head, hollowing his cheeks, and saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth down his chin. He gripped Scott’s arse, urging him forward, but Scott kept his movements small, gentle. John wanted him to lose control. He wanted to drive Scott crazy. He wanted to feel Scott’s arse thrust and squeeze in his hands. But, no matter how John tried to silently urge him, Scott barely moved.

Finally, John pulled back. “Fuck my mouth.”

Though Scott’s cock was already back in John’s mouth, Scott asked, “What?”

With a huff, John pulled back again, “Fuck my mouth.”

“I don’t-- Ah.”

John gave Scott’s arse a slap--small enough only to startle but hard enough, he hoped, to make it clear that he was not joking. And luckily, Scott seemed to get the idea because his hips started to move, rolling languidly, changing the angle of his cock in John’s mouth. John moaned, closing his eyes and letting it all wash over him. He felt outside himself. At this moment, he was a tool for Scott’s pleasure, and it was glorious. He wasn’t stressed about his job or his family. None of that mattered as long as Scott’s cock was sliding in and out of his mouth.

 _C’mon_ , John thought, squeezing Scott’s buttocks with every thrust. _Come for me._

Scott’s fingers curled around John’s nape, and John’s eyes fluttered open. He leaned his head back so he could look into Scott’s eyes. They were black with arousal, the eyelids hooded, his cheeks flushed, his mouth open around a pant.

John kept his eyes on Scott’s as his hand slid its way up Scott’s torso, ruffling the close-trimmed hairs from the base of his cock on up his abdomen. His other hand stayed on Scott’s arse, fingers flexing against the undulating muscle, and he moaned, the sound aborted as Scott’s cock hit the back of his throat.

_Oh, fuck yes._

“John,” Scott huffed, his hips stuttering. “I’m-- I’m gonna--”

John moaned, and although he couldn’t have the pleasure of feeling that first spurt on the back of his throat, he could feel the way Scott’s cock jerked and pulsed in his mouth. If John wasn’t already on his knees, he might have stumbled to the floor. As it was, he had to hold onto Scott’s thighs for dear life as Scott rode out his orgasm in John’s mouth.

Finally, and too soon, Scott pulled back, half-collapsing half-easing himself down to sit on the toilet seat. He panted a few times before saying, “God.”

John stared at Scott’s mouth. With Scott seated and John on his knees, it would be so easy for him to shuffle forward a bit. Slot himself between Scott’s legs. Press their mouths together. Instead, he shuffled forward and kissed Scott’s jaw.

Scott let his head fall back. His fingers tangled in John’s hair, and a low moan rumbled against John’s lips.

“That was…” Scott said.

John hummed against Scott’s neck. He felt warm and hazy, arousal buzzing over every inch of his skin. It burned low, embers that could be stoked to life at the slightest provocation, but at the moment, he was content to enjoy the glow.

“Your turn,” Scott said. He pulled back with a wicked glint in his eye.

John blinked slowly, rubbing his palms slowly up and down Scott’s thighs. “No.”

Scott winced. “What?”

“I mean, yes. God, yes. But not yet, all right?”

Both of Scott’s eyebrow raised, and then one lowered, his lips pursing. He stared at John like that for quite a while, and John had to bite back a chuckle. He nuzzled back into Scott’s neck, pressing a kiss at the pulse point.

“Do you want to go back out there or go home?” John asked.

“Home.” Scott laid his cheek against John’s forehead.

John hummed and dragged his nails down the denim over Scott’s thighs. “Good. Why don’t you get yourself cleaned up, and I’ll take care of the tab and our coats, yeah?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> Many thanks as well once again to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life and monikakrasnorada.


	15. It's not your childhood dream.

Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket on the way to the bedroom of the suite. Without breaking stride, he tossed it over the back of the lounger and stripped off his shirt. As he sat to take off his boots, he watched John walk in, step out of his shoes, and place them at the bottom of the wardrobe. The action was so normal, so domestic, and a spike of anger shot through Sherlock’s chest. He threw his first boot, not bothering to look to see where it landed.

John flinched at the heavy thud of the boot hitting the floor, but he made no comment. Instead, he asked, “All right?”

His voice was rough, hoarse, no doubt from Sherlock’s cock hitting the back of his throat.

Sherlock ripped at his laces. “Of course.”

John’s fingers went blindly to his shirt buttons as he stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared back, tossing his second boot in a similar direction to the first. He stood, pacing as he tore open the button and zip of his jeans. He couldn’t stay still; every muscle in him itched for movement, but he couldn’t parse the source. He’d felt so relaxed at the club, but ever since they left, the tension in his body ratcheted, refusing to ease even for a moment. Usually it was boredom that put him in such a state, but that wasn’t it. And he just wished John would stop watching him. John’s gaze was palpable, prickling over every inch of Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock rolled back his shoulders and tipped his head from side to side in attempt to work some of the tension from his muscles.

“Listen.” John laid his hand over Sherlock’s shoulder. “If I’ve done something--”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock snapped.

He spun on John, and his gaze caught in the hair exposed behind John’s half-unbuttoned shirt. A breath he didn’t quite realize he’d been holding eased out of him. There it was. A situation he could control. Get himself on familiar ground, get himself some distance, and then he could work it out.

He reached for John’s buttons. “Your turn now.”

John grabbed Sherlock’s hands, easing them away. “Whoa. Wait a minute.”

“For God’s sake, John.” Sherlock ripped his hands from John’s grasp and stormed across the room, grabbing his cigarettes from the dresser and marching for the balcony door. He left it open behind him as he collapsed into a chair, lighting a cigarette, staring at the starless sky. He held in the first lungful, savoring the burn before finally letting it out.

John didn’t follow him, and he wasn’t sure whether he liked or hated that fact. It was sentiment. He couldn’t deny it anymore. He liked John, and that was clouding his judgement. He’d messed up at the club. He should have gone through with leaving before that. Hell, he shouldn’t have let the incident at the polo match get to him in the first place. 

But it was fine, he was nothing if not adept at separating himself from his emotions. He could compartmentalize. He just needed to be more vigilant.

However, he stayed out on the balcony for several more cigarettes. Until the chill of the night air on his bare torso was too much for even him.

He’d hoped that John would be asleep when he came in, but instead, he was sitting up in bed, rifling through a stack of paper. So, Sherlock slinked in, doing his best to stay silent as he slipped out of his jeans and into the bed.

“Hey,” John said, smiling down at him, and Sherlock’s heart jumped. _Traitorous transport._

“Hey.” Sherlock pulled the covers up over his shoulders, huddling down into the warmth. “Resumes?”

“Yeah.” John dropped the papers into his lap, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t say why I’m bothering. I don’t know if this deal is even going to go through.”

Sherlock hummed. “Bringing me to that dinner was a mistake.”

John’s gaze snapped to Sherlock, his mouth dropping open, his eyebrows drooping. “Why do you say that?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Why won’t the deal go through?”

John’s gaze dropped to his papers. He cleared his throat. “You heard him at that dinner. Plus, he’s getting a loan to keep him afloat until I get off his back.”

Sherlock sighed, exasperated, before rolling on his back. Slipping his hands behind his head, his eyes on the ceiling, he said, “You don’t need to shield me from the truth. He’s a homophobe.”

“We don’t know that for certain. It could be--”

“Oh yes, we do. I talked to Peter today, or have you forgotten?”

John stretched the fingers of his left hand. Still bothered him, then. Sherlock’s traitorous heart jumped again.

Pretending to shift his focus to the resumes, John asked, “What did he say?”

“That his father’s a homophobe.”

“Just like that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “In so many words.”

John pressed his fingers to his eyelids, grimacing. “I’m so sick of this.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he regarded John. That statement could mean so many things. Was he sick of the Dimmocks? Of homophobia in general? Of this trip? Of his job?

“What do you mean?” Sherlock asked.

“Why do I care?” John made a motion as if to push everything away, but he stopped himself. “This is pointless. I used to make a difference, but now…”

John frowned, gesturing to the files in his lap like they were filled with maggots.

“Pointless.” John flicked the flap of his folder over the papers, and dropped the lot on the floor. It landed with a slap. “That’s enough of that for one day. Going to sleep?”

Sherlock shrugged again, but he rolled over to his side, facing away from John. He heard the click of the lamp behind him, and the room was thrown into darkness. He could see the shadow of John’s profile cast by the light pollution drifting through the gauzy curtains. The bed behind Sherlock jostled as he watched John’s silhouette settle down, and then he felt John’s body curl around his back. His body warred between tensing and relaxing into the touch, leaving him restless and squirming.

“Christ,” John hissed. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine.” So Sherlock said, but his backstabbing body shuddered, pressing into the warmth at its rear.

John pulled Sherlock tight against him before rubbing vigorously at Sherlock’s arm. It was a gesture that did very little to warm Sherlock’s body, but it did cause an unsettling warmth to spread from his chest. John kissed him between the shoulder blades, and Sherlock started to hum, cutting it off with a glottal stop before it could bloom.

John pulled the covers up to Sherlock’s chin. “Better?”

Sherlock nodded, afraid that any spoken word would come out quiet and rough, give himself away. John’s arm settled over Sherlock’s torso, tucked underneath his elbow, hand splayed on his abdomen. And then he just stayed there, his rate of breathing gradually slowing. His soft cock was nestled between Sherlock’s buttocks, but he made no move to thrust. His hand wouldn’t move from its place equidistant between Sherlock’s cock and nipples. His breath heated the back of Sherlock’s neck, but his lips didn’t press to the skin at Sherlock’s nape, nor did his teeth nibble at it.

It was unnerving. How was Sherlock ever supposed to sleep like this?

So, Sherlock tilted back his hips, eliciting a sleepy hum behind him. John’s nose nuzzled against Sherlock’s spine. His arm squeezed across Sherlock’s torso, but then he went still again, his body relaxing, his breathing slow and even.

Sherlock pressed back again, adding a little wriggle of the hips, and finally, he felt John’s cock stir against his arse. John’s mouth opened, letting out a quick huff of air, and his own hips canted forward.

Pressing back again, extracting another moan from John, Sherlock murmured, “Don’t go to sleep yet.”

“Hmm?” John grunted, his hips circling sleepily against Sherlock.

Sherlock laid his hand over John’s, guiding it to his chest, to those sensitive nipples he’d been so enamoured with only an hour before. “You haven’t had your turn.”

John’s thumb grazed over Sherlock’s nipple, and his lips dragged over Sherlock’s back. His movements were still sluggish, sleepy, but it was progress. Sherlock reached behind him, grabbed as much of John’s arse as he could fit into one hand and pushed, pressing his groin tight to Sherlock’s arse.

John gasped, whispering, “Scott.”

Sherlock tensed. The name sounded wrong on John’s tongue. He wanted to hear awed whispers of _Sherlock_. Not _Scott_. But, he pushed it aside, forcing his body to relax. He pressed his arse back again, this time sliding and pressing against John’s fully erect cock.

John pinched Sherlock’s nipple, making him cry out and arch into the touch. And, the bastard, he smiled against Sherlock’s shoulder blade.

“Yes, my nipples are sensitive. You’ve quite made your point.”

John’s hand slid down Sherlock’s torso until he could curl it around Sherlock’s lower hip, using it to help guide their movements. Sherlock huffed, his cock stirring. It was nearing full hardness, which hadn’t been the point of this exercise, but now that it was there, he wanted John to touch it, palm him through his pants or reach in and wrap his hand around it, let Sherlock thrust into his hand and back against his cock. But, his hand remained steadfast on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock’s breath stuttered in and out, and his hips started to take on their own rhythm, speeding before Sherlock had told them to.

“Roll on your back,” John said. “I want to put my mouth on you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock huffed, rolling over. Without missing a beat, John pressed his cock against Sherlock’s hip and bent to his chest. His teeth grazed over Sherlock’s nipple, making him shiver. Gripping it between his teeth, John tugged at it, and the sensation went straight to Sherlock’s cock, making it jump in his pants. The sensation of the fine cotton rubbing against his cock made him groan, and he found himself pushing down at John’s pyjama bottoms.

John blew on Sherlock’s nipple. Was he trying to make Sherlock lose his mind?

“Have you ever come like this?” John asked, laving over the sensitive nub.

Sherlock peered down to see John looking up at him, his tongue obscene and wriggling against Sherlock’s skin. The breath punched from him, and he had to close his eyes. He shook his head.

“Do you think you could?”

“I don’t-- I don’t know.” Sherlock kept pushing at John’s pyjamas, growing more and more frustrated. He needed to get John’s cock in his hand, but these were the most stubborn bottoms he’d ever encountered in his life.

Thankfully, John had mercy and pushed them down himself. Sherlock sighed as he felt John’s cock draw a warm, wet line on the side of his waist. He ran his palm up the underside, just enjoying the feel of the velvety skin for a moment before he pushed John’s head off his chest.

“Hey--” John started, but he promptly shut up when Sherlock propped himself up enough to spit into his hand.

Sherlock collapsed back to the bed, wrapping his now-slick hand around John’s cock. John’s mouth dropped open, his eyes closing tight as he thrust into Sherlock’s fist. He watched John’s face, the way he panted, the way his eyelids drifted up and down. His breath hit Sherlock’s face, smelling like whiskey and toothpaste, and as Sherlock’s fingers rippled along his length, his eyes squeezed shut.

“God, your fingers,” John groaned, dropping his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock smirked. “I told you I could work a stick.”

John burst into a wheezing laugh, his body hunching in on itself as it shook. Sherlock paused, his eyes wide, when John pushed up to one elbow. His face was flushed, his mouth in a wide grin, his eyes sparkling. He pressed his lips together, obviously trying to hold back the laughter, but when it tore free again, Sherlock found himself chuckling along.

After a moment, as the laughter faded away, John reached out to cup Sherlock’s cheek. His thumb swept over Sherlock’s cheekbone as he looked down at him. Sherlock found himself pushing into the touch like a needy kitten. His eyes drifted closed, and he felt John push the hair from his forehead, his fingertips tickling Sherlock’s scalp.

When John kissed his jaw, Sherlock had to bite back a surge of disappointment, shifting his attention to the cock in his hand before he could betray his feelings any further. John dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, his upper body still propped on his elbow as his hips rolled towards Sherlock’s grip.

“Scott,” he huffed. “That feels so good.”

“Do you want to come for me, John?” Sherlock arched his back, rolling his body in a way proven to look enticing to his clients.

“God, yeah.” John lifted his head enough to press his lips to Sherlock’s ear, whispering, “Make me come, Scott.”

Sherlock shivered, his own cock twitching even with the wrong name being whispered into his ear. And then John was reaching into Sherlock’s pants. His fingers toyed with Sherlock’s bollocks before his palm dragged up the underside of Sherlock’s cock, his nose and lips nuzzling against Sherlock’s ear all the while. Sherlock arched, this time involuntarily. 

“God, you’re gorgeous,” John whispered, wrapping his hand around Sherlock’s cock, swiping his thumb over a bead of precome, spreading it around Sherlock’s slit. Sherlock’s hand worked on instinct only. He had lost track of everything that was outside John’s hand on his cock and John’s lips on his ear. It was all an indistinct haziness compared to the bright pinpoints of sensation.

This was all wrong. It was supposed to be about John’s pleasure, about evening the playing field, getting himself back into familiar territory. Instead, he felt exposed, more naked than he’d ever felt in the nude. His body tensed; his eyes squeezed shut; his toes curled. He was barely aware of John shuddering beside him, of come coating his own hand. He was too caught up in chasing his own orgasm, the glorious tension building and building. His hips lifted off the bed, his heels slipping on the duvet.

He felt strung out tighter than a piano wire at high C, sure to take out an eye if he broke now. He bit his lip, not ready to come, not ready to come, but John’s hand just kept working. His lips kept moving against Sherlock’s ear.

It took several moments before Sherlock realized that there were words coming from John’s mouth.

“I’ve got you. That’s it. Let go, Scott. I’ve got you.”

Finally--finally--the hammer struck, and Sherlock collapsed back to earth, his body shuddering, hunching in on itself as he spilled. It felt like all his emotions were pouring out with his semen, and even as he collapsed to the bed, he wanted to gather it all back to him, shield himself in it. Instead, he rolled over to his side, heaving a great sigh.

John’s lips met the center of Sherlock’s back, and it was as if they took the rest of Sherlock’s tension with them. He took a deep breath and sighed again, the lines on his face smoothing out. John’s fingertips skated up and down his back, and Sherlock allowed himself to enjoy it for just a few seconds.

He counted slowly to fifteen in his head, and once he reached it, he sat up.

“All right?” John asked.

Sherlock peered over his shoulder, not really looking at John. “Fine. I just need to change my pants.”

John hummed contentedly, and Sherlock stood, grabbing a fresh pair of pants from one of the shopping bags and disappearing into the bathroom. He wet a flannel and cleaned himself before putting on the new pair.

When Sherlock came back out, John was already settled on his pillow. He turned on his side when the light hit him, and a warm smile spread on his face, illuminating him more than the bathroom light ever could. As Sherlock shut off the light, he found himself smiling in return, feeling the veritable warm fuzzies.

_Damn._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life and monikakrasnorada.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. If I forget to tell you later, I had a really nice time.

“We need to strategize, John. You can’t just let things be and hope it fixes itself.”

John pecked his way across his keyboard, double and triple checking the reservations. It had been awhile since he’d done this himself. “Yes, because that’s so like me.”

“Right now it is,” Harry replied.

“I can’t tonight.”

“And why not?”

John paused, clearing his throat. “I have a date tonight.”

“With the rent boy?”

“Harry,” John began, his tone a warning, but Scott chose the moment to walk out of the bedroom in his tuxedo. “Bye.”

Scott tugged at the cuffs until just the right amount showed past his coat sleeves. He spread his arms, palms forward. “Well?”

John’s mouth dropped open, and after a moment, he realized that Harry’s voice was still coming from the mobile held precariously in his hand. Closing his mouth with a clack, John hit end on the phone and set it on the coffee table. The suit was tailored to within an inch of its life, hugging Scott’s body in a way that made him look like he was made to wear it instead of the other way around. His curls had been tamed into order, but there was not nearly as much product in it as the night they met, leaving him looking like a cross between Lord Byron and a runway model. John felt downright frumpy in his own tux.

After a raised eyebrow from Scott, John finally managed to say, “Stunning.”

“Care to tell me where we’re going?” Scott asked.

John smiled his best shit-eating grin. He wasn’t going to be able to contain it, so he saw no point in trying. “Nope.”

Scott smoothed the front of his jacket. “You know I’ll figure it out eventually.”

John bounced on his toes. “Maybe.”

As Scott gave him a skeptical sideways glance, John closed his laptop. On the coffee table next to it, his phone buzzed to life, Harry’s name lighting the screen, and John turned it off. After the debacle of the day before, he would be damned if he let Harry ruin another one. Especially when he was trying to make it up to Scott.

“Are you ready?” Scott asked, and John nodded.

***

After a lovely dinner, which Scott spent making guesses about the evening’s activities (some of which were correct, though John wouldn’t confirm or deny any of them), they pulled up outside the Dolby Theatre.

“ _Lady of the Camellias,”_ Scott said. “A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”

John chuckled and shrugged. “I didn’t make the schedule.”

“Mm hm.” Scott raised an eyebrow, looking incredulous, but John didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched at the corner. Nor did he miss the way Scott’s eyes lit up.

As they picked up their tickets at will call, John asked, “Have you ever been to the ballet before?”

“Of course I have.” Scott slipped the tickets from where John had put them in his suit coat pocket and walked ahead, handing them to an usher.

John smiled and shook his head. He didn’t know why stuff like this still surprised him. He just didn’t understand how a man who’s attended polo matches and ballets, who can blend so seamlessly into any number of society functions where John would feel like a sore thumb, could end up walking the streets of Hollywood.

John pushed the thought aside in favor of following Scott and the usher to their seats, only four rows back and a few seats from the center. John much preferred the front balcony, but these were the best seats he could get on short notice, even while greasing the palms of everyone he could. He actually felt a bit too close here, like a dancer’s flop sweat might hit him in the face.

Scott looked placid, skimming the program, but his knees bounced and wriggled. Just a bit, but it was there. He was barely contained energy, like a shaken soda can, ready to burst under the slightest pressure. John felt a tug at the corner of his lips, a growing warmth in his chest, and he laid his hand over Scott’s knee.

It froze in place the moment John’s hand hit it, and he asked, “All right?”

“Yes,” Scott whispered. “Of course.”

John leaned to speak in Scott’s ear. “Do you like the ballet?”

“Oh, yes.”

John would have liked to pursue the line of conversation, but the house lights faded, and the overture swelled. He listened politely, waiting patiently for the dancers to take the stage, but Scott leaned over to whisper in his ear.

“The second cello’s G-string is out of tune.”

John held back a chuckle, but his shoulders shook.

“Oh for God’s sake, John. Do grow up.”

“Sorry,” John whispered in return, settling into his seat.

As the troupe of dancers took the stage, John could feel the energy buzzing through Scott like it had traveled through his seat to the floor, zinging back up John’s spine. And when the principal male made a particularly impressive flying leap, Scott’s mouth fell open.

For the rest of the production, no matter how John tried to keep his eyes on the stage, they were drawn to Scott. Scott was enraptured. For all he knew, there was no one else in the audience. Even as he watched, John was fairly sure Scott would deny all the faces he made while watching, but John didn’t care. Scott’s face was a wonder. He was like a child watching _The Nutcracker_ for the first time.

It seemed an odd reaction for one who had claimed so haughtily that he’d been to the ballet before, and John wondered if it had been a lie.

***

He was still wondering when the curtain closed and the house lights came up. Sherlock blinked, keeping his seat even as everyone around him stood and started milling towards the exits. It was like the trip back to earth had jarred him, and he needed some time to regain his equilibrium.

“Did you enjoy the ballet?” John asked.

Scott’s gaze shot to John. “Yes. Very much.”

John held out his hand. “Have you been very often?”

Scott took the hand and let himself be pulled to standing. “I used to go constantly, but I haven’t been in”--his brows furrowed as he looked down and to the side--“nine years.”

“Wow.”

If John hadn’t known better, he would have said that Scott’s eyes were tearing. 

“Thank you, John. This was lovely.”

“Of course.” John offered Scott his hand again, shuffling along with the crowd. Looking over his shoulder as Scott took his hand, he continued, “Nine years. You must have been pretty young.”

“Fifteen.”

John chuckled. “I don’t think I knew what the ballet was when I was fifteen.”

“My family had season tickets.”

As if that explained everything instead of deepening the mystery that was Scott.

***

By the time they arrived back at the hotel, John had obtained no peace about Scott. Intellectually, he knew it was none of his business. He had no right to ask that of Scott. No matter how John felt, Scott owed him nothing. Not to say that it didn’t upset him. When John looked at Scott, he saw squandered potential. Scott could be so much more. What could have possibly brought him to this?

John tried to push the thought aside as they made their way through the hotel lobby, not that there was much chance of that happening. The hotel manager, who was chatting with the evening receptionist, nodded to them as they passed. As John nodded in return, Scott swept past him and pushed the button for the lift. Stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets, Scott rocked on his feet and watched the numbers above the lift doors.

“Shut up,” Scott said.

John raised his eyebrows at Scott reflection. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking. It’s deafening.”

“Oh, right.” John’s brows furrowed, and he looked up at Scott. How did he do that? Did he know what John was thinking? It certainly seemed possible.

“You’re still doing it.”

“Sorry.” John glanced at Scott’s reflection and then back at Scott, his mind still spinning, but he caught himself. “Sorry.”

Thankfully, the lift chose that moment to open for them, and they walked in together. John sent it up to the penthouse and then leaned back against the wall. He tried avoiding Scott’s gaze, keeping his eyes forward so he wouldn’t be tempted to let his mind wander, but he couldn’t help a few surreptitious glances.

“You have questions.”

“No.” John scratched at his nape. “I mean, well, yeah, but it’s fine. You don’t owe me any answers.”

“All right.” Scott stared at the numbers counting up for a moment before glancing down at John. “Thank you.”

John nodded. True, he had to swallow back his disappointment, but it was fine.

***

A few minutes later, Scott disappeared into the bedroom, tossing his suit jacket over the lounger on the way. John stared at it as he set the keycard on the bar and shrugged out of his own coat.

Scott had been so mercurial since the day before, and John couldn’t help but wonder if he was still angry. It was the only thing that made sense. Sure, Scott had said he forgave John, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still angry. And that didn’t mean that he hadn’t said that just to make it to the end of the week and the full eight thousand. But then, if that were the case, why had he left the money behind when he had stormed out?

John wandered into the bedroom and hung up his jacket. Scott was nowhere to be found, but as John undid his cuffs, he noticed Scott’s suit in a wrinkled pile on the floor. The sound of water running came from the bathroom, accompanied by little furls of steam.

John pushed open the door, walked in and closed it behind him. The bath was running, the air filled with the smell of rose oil, and Scott stood at the sink, brushing his teeth in the nude. When he spotted John in the foggy mirror, he raised an eyebrow.

Though John had planned to confront the issue, find out what was really wrong, he found himself distracted by the tattoo on Scott’s back.

“Oh my God. Wow.” John’s eyes and mouth went wide, his brows leaping up towards his hairline.

Scott pulled the toothbrush from his mouth. “What?”

“It’s an optical illusion.”

“Oh. Yes.”

John stepped up close behind to get a closer look. What at first glance appeared to be a skull was actually two people sitting across from each other at a table, bottles lined up between them.

“It’s amazing.” John traced the arc of the skull with his fingertip. “Where did you get it?”

“New York.”

“When were you in New York?”

“I lived there for five years.”

“Oh.” John swallowed, wondering if he should ask the next question. “What did you do there?”

Scott rinsed his toothbrush. “Do you mean to ask me if I was a prostitute in New York as well?”

John dropped his hand from Scott’s back, wiped his hands on his trousers. “Were you?”

“Most of the time.” Scott smirked, shaking out the toothbrush before primly placing it in a cup.

“Meaning?”

“I had other jobs, but they didn’t pan out.”

John backed away until he was sitting at the edge of the tub. “That’s surprising to me. I would think you’d be capable of anything.”

The corner of Scott’s mouth twitched as he looked down at the sink. As he looked up, his eyes meeting John’s in the mirror, he said, “I have a problem with authority.”

John chuckled. Somehow that didn’t surprise him. “Do you now?”

Scott shrugged. “That’s what the psychologists said.”

“Gists? Plural?”

“Oh, yes. I had seven.”

John tested the water in the bath and shut off the water, so it took a moment for the number to sink in. “At once?” he blurted.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why so many?”

Scott seemed fascinated with the sink. “They don’t like it when you tell them all their secrets.”

John laughed. “You’re incredible.”

Scott turned around to face John, rubbing the palm of his hand with the thumb of the other. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

The corner of Scott’s mouth twitched, and he dropped his hands to the edge of the sink, leaning his bodyweight against them. He looked at John through his lashes, and John felt his own mouth twitch in return.

“Well,” John cut in after a moment of silence. “I’ll let you get to your bath.”

John stood, ready to walk out the door, but before he took that first step, Scott said, “Or…”

John turned, raising his eyebrows at Scott.

“You could join me.”

John felt that tug at the corner of his mouth again, and he nodded. “I’d like that.”

John toed off his shoes, placing them next to each other just inside the door before going to work on the rest of his clothes. He undressed facing the wall, somehow feeling shy even though they had seen each other naked several times at this point. He heard the splash of Scott settling in the bath behind him and felt his cheeks heat. God, what was this?

Wiping his hands over his cheeks as if that might clear the blush, John turned and stepped into the bath. As soon as John was settled across from him, Scott spun in the water and backed up until his back came to rest against John’s chest, his head against John’s shoulder. John tensed for a moment, suddenly at a loss for what to do with his hands, but then Scott’s hands wrapped over his kneecaps.

John let out a slow breath that he hadn’t quite realised he was holding and slumped into the water, running his fingers through Scott’s hair. Slowly, the water from the bath migrated through Scott’s curls until they were damp and slick under John’s palms. Thanks in no small part, John was sure, to the oils in the water. But Scott was melting into John’s front, his head lolling on John’s shoulder, so it didn’t much matter the reason.

John loved those curls. He loved them in a wild frizz. He loved them tamed with too much product. And he especially loved them slick beneath his palms and tangled in his fingers, especially with Scott’s wet, naked body hugging every contour of John’s. Sure, a few questions still niggled at the back of John’s brain, but he was willing to ignore them for the time being.

“You’re still thinking,” Scott said, his voice rumbling through John’s chest.

John hummed in response.

Scott shifted against him. “Tell me.”

“Did you grow up in the States?”

“No. London.”

“How’d you end up in this country, then?”

Scott shimmied, shifting his shoulders and sliding his head farther down John’s shoulder. “University.”

“Oh? Where’d you go to university?”

“Penn.”

“Wow. What did you study?”

Scott swallowed. His body tensed, and John thought he was going to sit up, but after a moment, he relaxed again. “Chemistry.”

“Listen, if you don’t want to talk about this--”

“No, it’s fine.” He paused, raking his fingernails up and down John’s thighs. “I didn’t graduate.”

John didn’t want to press. He waited for Scott to elaborate, but as time went on with nothing further, John had to ask. “Why not?”

“I flunked out.”

One silent laugh huffed from John’s lungs before he could stop it. “I don’t buy it.”

Scott smirked, his palms journeying over John’s legs. “No. I had a perfect average. The classes I didn’t ace outright, I blackmailed the professors.”

“Now that, I believe.” John pushed the wet curls off Scott’s forehead, slicking them back as best they could with only water to hold them. “So then, how did you end up in New York?”

Scott huffed with his whole body, his arse sliding away and his arms dropping to his side. He pressed his lips together, and John could see in the mirror a distant stare on his face. Glancing down, he answered, “I went to university when I was sixteen, and on my eighteenth birthday, I left.”

At that, Scott spun on John, his eyes narrowed. John flinched.

“But let’s get one thing straight,” Scott said. “This is not some sad story about a runaway child. I was an adult choosing to live a different life from the one set before me. Understand?”

John nodded. “Of course.”

Scott spun back around and leaned against John’s chest. 

John sat still as Scott settled back in. He tried to get his body to relax, to no avail. Scott’s sudden outburst took him aback, and he couldn’t quite figure out how to respond. Which worked out well because it ended up Scott wasn’t finished.

“University gave me a taste of freedom that I wasn’t keen to give up. My body was useful, so I used it. End of story.”

Hesitantly, John threaded his fingers into Scott’s hair. “I didn’t mean to suggest--”

“I know. Just relax. If you stay this stiff, it rather defeats the purpose of a bath.”

John chuckled, letting the tension seep from his shoulders. “All right.”

Scott resumed his exploration of John’s thighs. Letting his head fall back on John’s shoulder, he grazed his lips over John’s jaw. His back arched as he craned his neck until his mouth met John’s ear, and as his hand snaked between their bodies, he whispered, “Which isn’t to say no part of you can be stiff.”

John chuckled, the sound cutting off into a sudden gust of air when Scott rolled John’s bollocks against his palm. His hand was just slick enough from the bath oil that it made a smooth drag over the loose skin, pulling it along just enough to make John groan. As much as he loved it when things were slick and slippery, there was something about a little extra friction on his balls.

“Do that again,” John huffed, his lips dropping to Scott’s shoulder.

“What? This?” Scott asked, dragging his palm down the underside of John’s cock and on to his testicles, where his fingers tickled at John’s arse, the heel of his hand pressing in circles just where John wanted it.

“Yes. That’s good.”

John hummed as Scott worked him, never really ramping up the tension. He kept his touches light, moving from one body part to the next before John’s body could settle in, never resolving into a rhythm. It kept John’s arousal simmering low, kept him firmly in his body and out of his head, so that while his body was held stock still with anticipation, his mind was blissfully empty. His hands roamed Scott’s shoulders and biceps, his chest and abdomen, until John’s palms buzzed.

His head falling back against the rim of the tub, John’s hips canted, his cock sliding against the small of Scott’s back, and he couldn’t tell if the resulting gasp belonged to him or Scott. John hummed, wrapping his hands over Scott’s abdomen and easing him back until his body was once more molded to John’s chest. He sighed as Scott’s back hit his pecs and slid his hands to the outside of Scott’s hips. As his hands continued their path over the tops and on to the inside, he knew these gasps belonged to Scott, and he groaned as Scott’s hips twitched towards his hands.

John dragged his lips up Scott’s neck, his fingertips exploring Scott’s inner thighs. Scott’s thighs parted bit by bit, and John fingers explored each inch of newly revealed flesh like it was El Dorado. His hips rocked, pressing closer to John’s hands and back against John’s cock, making it slide between his cheeks. It was intoxicating, this slow build, so much so that when Scott’s hips threatened to find a rhythm, to accelerate, John rubbed soothing circles into the tops of Scott’s thighs. Pressing his lips to Scott’s ears, John hushed him.

Scott pressed his lips together, turning the corners white, and he turned towards John, their noses bumping. His mouth so close to John’s that John could feel the heat from it, he said, “Don’t you want to come?”

“Not yet.” John murmured. God, he wanted to close that gap. “Do you?”

Scott faced forward, settling his head against John’s shoulder. “I want what you want.”

He punctuated his words with a wriggle of his arse against John’s cock, and John gasped. He wanted to reach down and fondle that arse, spread the cheeks until he could nestle his cock between them, but their bodies were pressed too close together. He couldn’t reach without putting space between their bodies, and that was just something he couldn’t abide. In that moment, a centimetre of empty space may as well have been the Grand Canyon.

Wrapping his arms around Scott’s waist, John whispered into his ear, “I’d like to be inside you. Would that be all right?”

“That might require getting out of the bath,” Scott replied with a smirk, his hands skating over John’s forearms.

John smiled, pressing a kiss to Scott’s temple. “I’m in no hurry.”

Grabbing John’s hands, Scott broke the circle around his waist and spun around. John’s mouth popped open like a nutcracker’s, ready with an indignant sound, but Scott quickly closed the space between them by crawling into John’s lap. His arms draped over John’s shoulders as he settled. Their cocks slid together, the way eased by the rose oil clinging to their skin, and John shivered, his hands clapping over Scott’s hips, sending a splash of water into the air.

His face hovered above John’s, his mouth open just enough for John to spot Scott’s tongue pressing against the back of his teeth. It looked wet and velvety, and John couldn’t help but imagine that kissing him must feel like a square of fine chocolate melting on your tongue. Scott’s hips canted forward, his weight pressing down, and John’s hand flew around his waist, his head dropping to Scott’s chest.

John’s own hips stuttered, spelling out incomprehensible phrases in morse code. Perhaps he’d overestimated himself. Perhaps the low flame of arousal had burned for too long. Perhaps that low flame had merely been a fuse that was coming down to its last sparking seconds.

Scott’s fingers curled around John’s nape, and the heels of his hands pressed against John’s chin, guiding it up. John did his best to let it move, though his entire body wanted to close in over the flaring tension in his groin. Scott’s hips kept a punishing rhythm, and John realized that it was too late. It didn’t matter if Scott stopped, they weren’t going to make it to the bedroom. John had reached the point of no return, and all that was left was to fall over the cliff and crash to the bottom.

Who knew what face he was making as Scott made their eyes meet? He was sure it was desperate, probably clenched, and red as a beet. Scott’s mouth was open, panting, his own flush painting his cheekbones, but he looked much more together than John felt.

Scott’s hooded gaze fell to John’s mouth, and he said, “Eyes on me.”

John struggled to hold Scott’s gaze. It was too tempting to follow the hand that fled from his face and skated down his body. But when it wrapped around both of them, all was lost. John’s head did its best to fall back in Scott’s grip, his eyes wrenching shut, his whole body pulsing, punching the breath from his lungs.

“Oh, God,” John groaned as he convulsed, his jaw dropping as he spilled into the hot water. He tried to open his eyes, to see the expression on Scott’s face, but he couldn’t manage it. But, he could feel Scott’s breath on his face, ghosting over his mouth and nose.

“John,” Sherlock muttered, his voice soft and gravelly, and when John licked his lips, he could have sworn that he felt the tip of his tongue graze Scott’s lip.

However, when John opened his eyes, Scott had already scooted away. He was sitting on John’s knees, balancing himself on John’s shoulder with one hand while the other glided over his cock. The swirl of water still disturbed by the movements of their bodies obscured the view, but what John could see was mesmerizing. He reached out, letting his fingertips bump Sherlock’s knuckles. His touch ghosted over Scott’s hand, and he could feel Scott’s arse clenching and releasing against his legs.

“Gorgeous,” John soughed. “Amazing. Brilliant.”

Scott’s head fell back, a groan ripping through him like a tidal wave. His back arched and rolled until his head fell forward, his crown resting on John’s forehead as his own orgasm pulsed through him. True, John couldn’t see much with a tangle of curls in his face, but it was beautiful, those few unguarded moments before Scott wrapped his armor around himself.

John felt privileged to see that part of him, even for just a few seconds, and he stroked Scott’s cheek, kissing the top of his head as his body quivered with aftershocks. Before the last shudder had gone out of him, Scott looked up. His eyes shone. His mouth was slack, and his breath gusted out of him, each breath in a quaver.

John felt a smile tug at his mouth, and he let it grow, tucking a stray hair behind Scott’s ear before trailing his finger down Scott’s jaw. He punctuated the touch with a tap to the tip of Scott’s chin, which felt ridiculous and juvenile the second after he’d done it. 

Scott’s gaze followed John’s finger until it disappeared into the water, and then he blinked at the ripples in the water. John bracketed Scott’s waist with his hands, leaning up to kiss the hollow at the back of Scott’s jaw. Even with the air saturated with rose oil, Scott still had a unique scent at this spot, and John couldn’t resist the urge to press his nose to it and inhale.

However, when John pulled back, expecting to see something similar to the happy and relaxed expression he had seen just moments ago, Scott’s face was a blank mask, his eyelids fluttering at a frankly alarming rate.

“Scott?” John waved a hand in front of Scott’s face. “Scott, are you all right?”

With a sharp inhale, like he had just surfaced from deep-sea diving, Scott looked into John’s eyes. “Fine.”

“Are you certain? You looked like you were a million miles away.”

Scott brushed it away, backing off John’s lap. “Just thinking.” He stepped out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his waist. “Bed?”

John opened his mouth, baffled at what had just happened, but when Scott pulled the plug on the bath and offered John a towel, he was forced to either stare dumbly or shake it off. So, with a shrug, John said, “Fine. That’s fine. I’m pretty knackered.”

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life and monikakrasnorada.


	17. Take the day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler/trigger warning: if you are sensitive to portrayals of attempted sexual assault, you may want to give the third scene of this chapter a skip. It starts after the second set of asterisks.

Sherlock awoke to the feeling of fingertips gliding over his scalp like skates on an ice rink. Tingles gathered at his neck and trailed down his spine, and before he fully regained consciousness, he found himself pressing into the touch like a kitten. If he purred, he would be mortified.

He rolled away from the touch until he was on his back and looked up at John. John smiled, and through the blur of Sherlock’s half-open eyelids, he looked ethereal, the morning light through the window reflecting off him in a halo.

“Good morning,” John said.

Sherlock stretched, spreading his arms from one end of the bed to the other and curling his toes like a ballerina. “Morning.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, but I have to go.”

Sherlock’s eyelids flew open the rest of the way. He blinked. “What?”

“I’m speaking on a panel in”--John shook the watch out from beneath his cuff--”thirty-five minutes.”

“Oh. Tedious.”

“Yeah. Well.” John shrugged.

Sherlock pushed himself up, arranging pillows behind his back. “When will you be back?”

“I can come back right after, if you want.”

Sherlock shrugged.

John chuckled. “All right. Let’s meet for lunch. There’s a great Thai place near the conference center.”

“Acceptable.”

The corner of John’s mouth twitched upwards, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “All right.”

At that, John placed his hand on Sherlock’s cheek, and when Sherlock turned towards it, his face angling up towards John, he found John staring at his mouth. It made Sherlock’s heart surge, his lungs suddenly desperate for air. He found himself leaning in, pushing the heels of his hands against the mattress to gain some altitude.

It felt like the most natural thing in the world--to kiss your lover goodbye--and that was why, before their lips could meet, Sherlock winced, pulling himself out of range of John’s lips. “John.”

John’s eyes opened, his gaze flitting around Sherlock’s face.

“Right.” John stood, stepped back, and shoved his hands into his pockets. He nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

“John, I--”

“Yeah. Of course. I know.” John smiled, but his lips were tight. It didn’t reach his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ll just”--he pointed around himself towards the front door--”go. Will I see you for lunch?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Text me the details.”

“All right. See you later.”

Without further preamble, John left. Sherlock let out a long breath, feeling as though he dodged a bullet, but he wondered whether he would have rather been shot through the heart.

***

About an hour later, Sherlock was still lounging in pyjamas when the room’s phone rang. He spun, surprised at the sound. Who would be calling the room?

He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Scott?” asked the voice on the other end. Sherlock heard laughter in the background. “There’s a man here to see you. He says his name is Wiggins?”

“Yes? What does he want?”

“Just give me the phone,” said Billy’s tinny voice.

“Sir,” the receptionist said, too loud in the receiver though the message was obviously not intended for Sherlock. “Please do not grab the phone. Or me. If you do that again, I’ll have to call security.”

 _Billy, you piece of shit._ Security could mean cops, and if he had to talk to the police, that might ping Mycroft’s radar.

After clacking the receiver to the center of his forehead, Sherlock replaced it on his ear. “Don’t call security. I’ll come fetch him.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sherlock hung up, suppressing a growl until he realized there was no need to. So, growling, he flung a pair of jeans off the floor and fetched a clean shirt from a shopping bag. It still had fold marks drawing straight lines down his chest, which would normally drive him crazy, but he didn’t have time to fix it.

He was still buttoning the shirt when the lift arrived, and he punched the button for the lobby. What the fuck was Billy doing here anyway? He was supposed to be there days ago to pick up the money, and even then he should have picked it up and left. He couldn’t be there to bring Sherlock any of his belongings. There was nothing at the flat worth keeping, and even if there were, Billy would have been more likely to sell it or steal it than return it. He probably wanted more money.

Sherlock had just finished the last button on his cuff when the lift dinged and let him off.

Billy was leaning on the front desk, flirting shamelessly with the receptionist, who looked very uncomfortable. He reached out for her hair, and as she flinched back, Sherlock grabbed Billy’s wrist, flinging it away hard enough that Billy was forced to turn.

“Hey, Scott,” he said, scratching at his arm. He tugged at Sherlock’s collar. “Look at you all shined up.”

Sherlock glanced over at the receptionist. Her hand hovered above the telephone, her fingers quivering, her eyelids fluttering. If he didn’t get Billy out of there, he was going to find trouble. They could go outside, but there was likely to be a scene.

Sherlock’s lips pressed together as he glared at Billy. Snatching Billy’s hand from his collar, Sherlock dragged him to the lift, holding him there until an empty car arrived. Though Billy tried to pull free, his efforts were weak, and Sherlock’s grip was strong. Sherlock glanced at reception, but the attention of the woman at the desk had shifted to a new guest.

The lift arrived, and Sherlock shoved Billy into it. Following behind, he punched the button for the penthouse, swiped his key, and tapped the door close button like a kid playing an action-packed video game.

Once they were finally in privacy, Sherlock spun on Billy. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Billy flinched, blinking at Sherlock for a stupid moment until he pulled the envelope of cash from his pocket. “You left me money.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What are you still doing here?”

Billy eyed his reflection in the walls of the lift, pushing greasy hair off his forehead. “He dresses you nice.”

Sherlock scowled.

“Your hair’s a mess though.”

“You got me out of bed.”

“Must be nice.” Billy scratched at his arm again.

Sherlock scoffed. “I’m surprised you’re awake this early. Though”--he looked at the wear on the clothes, the pupils, the restless arms--”I suppose you haven’t been to bed yet.”

The lift chose that moment to open, and Billy rushed out before Sherlock could say anything else. Sherlock followed, tapping the keycard against the back of his knuckles. Billy waited patiently by the door, his nails restless against his skin, and Sherlock paused just outside the door, key poised in his hand.

“Why are you here, Billy?”

“I just want to talk.”

Sherlock tapped the card against the lock as he watched Billy from the side of his eye. “If you’re here to talk me out of moving out…”

“No. Course not. Can I come in?”

Sherlock unlocked the door and shoved it open. “Don’t touch anything.”

Billy nodded as he ducked in.

“Wow,” he said, stopping just inside the door and blocking Sherlock’s way.

Sherlock nudged him out of the way, and Billy stumbled forward a few steps, his jaw still slack at the room.

“He’s a rich one, ain’t he?” Billy asked. “He paid you yet?”

Slipping the keycard into his back pocket, Sherlock huffed. There it was. “I’m not giving you any money.”

“Just hear me out a second. I can pay you back everything.”

“No.”

Billy crowded into Sherlock’s space. God, his breath stank. “Moriarty’s got a great opportunity. I just need some capital.”

Sherlock walked away in an attempt to escape the miasma. “You must be joking.”

Billy rushed over. “I can pay you back plus profit. Just a couple grand.”

“Leave. Now.”

Billy shoved his hands in his pockets, muttering, “I don’t know why I even bothered.”

“Nor do I.”

“Can I at least use your bathroom?”

Sherlock huffed, rolling his eyes, but he swept his arms towards the bedroom. “By all means.”

Sherlock followed Billy as he scampered to the loo, and as the door shut behind Billy, Sherlock collapsed onto the bed. Now he’d have to rethink his territory. He had assumed that Billy would slink off with his tail between his legs, but if he had the gall to show up here, he had the gall to hold his stance at their spot. And all this bullshit about a “great opportunity.” If his current state were anything to go by, he’d gotten himself further in debt. Hell, he probably never paid back the original three hundred.

Well, that would be one less thing to worry about without Billy around. He shouldn’t have a reason to deal with Moriarty again. Just that thought alone was enough to make Sherlock smile, at least until he heard something clatter in the bathroom.

He shot up, rushing to the door, but when he went to open it, the knob wouldn’t turn. “What are you doing in there?”

A moment later, Billy opened the door with complimentary toiletries in hand. “I just wanted some shampoo. This shit is nice.”

“Fine. Take the soap and get out.”

“Money’s changed you, Scott.”

Sherlock’s mobile chose that moment to go off, and he held up one finger. “Wait there.”

As Sherlock pulled the phone from his pocket, Billy took a step forward, and Sherlock unlocked it even as the heel of his other hand hit Billy in the center of the chest.

Pulling up his text messages, Sherlock said, “No. You’re staying there until I can walk you out.”

“Why?”

Sherlock huffed, dropping the phone to his side. “Really. Even you aren’t that dense, Billy.”

Sherlock went back to his phone, glancing askance at Billy as he pulled up the text. It was from John.

“What do you care if I steal something from a trick?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed at Billy like a jungle cat’s in headlights.

 _Got out early,_ the text read. _How’s brunch instead?_

“Oh, look at you,” Billy said, but Sherlock held up a single finger without looking up from the phone.

He tapped out a reply. _Sounds lovely. Where?_

Sherlock locked the phone and slipped it into his pocket, checking his back pocket for the key as he turned his attention back to Billy. He whipped a sports coat from the back of a chair. “Time to go.”

“Who was that texting you?”

Sherlock grabbed Billy’s arm and dragged him towards the door. “That’s none of your concern.”

Billy gestured with his free arm even as he stumbled across the room, subject to Sherlock’s relentless grip. “It’s this guy, isn’t it? I saw that look on your face. You blushed. I didn’t think you were capable.”

Sherlock’s heart throbbed in his ears as he flung open the door, rage rushing through him like a tsunami. He could feel his cheeks heating. He couldn’t tell how much was anger or embarrassment or anger because of embarrassment, which only made it worse. He wanted to punch Billy in the face. He wanted the elevator doors to open on nothing so he could fling Billy into them.

Instead, he took it out on the lift’s call button.

“You know it doesn’t come any faster if you keep pushing it.” Billy laughed. “Did I strike a nerve?”

Sherlock spun, poking his lift finger into the center of Billy’s chest. “You know nothing about me, Billy. If you think I harbor any feelings for this John, you’re even higher than I thought. I have half a mind to--”

“Not to interrupt,” Billy said, nodding his head to the side. “But the elevator’s here.”

Sherlock’s head spun. The down arrow was lit, and he focused on the door itself just in time to see them settle into place in the open position. He hadn’t even heard the ding. Why was he letting Billy’s idiotic comments get to him?

Sherlock combed his fingers through his hair, letting out a gust of breath. “After you.”

They rode alone all the way down. The silence was loud in Sherlock’s ears, sounding suspiciously like a heartbeat. He could feel tension prickling its way up his shoulders and neck, down to his fingers. His fingers were restless at his sides, his left hand running through violin fingering exercises over and over again.

When would this fucking lift hit the ground? Surely Billy was sucking up all the oxygen in here. It would be just like him. Sherlock didn’t dare look at him lest Sherlock get banned from the hotel for murdering someone in their lift.

Finally, the lift arrived at the ground floor, and Billy pushed past Sherlock, rushing past the reception desk and straight out through the doors. Sherlock shook out the tension in his arms as he stepped out, checking himself in a mirror across from the lift. He cajoled his curls into place and pushed his palms down his abdomen. The shirt still had two lines straight down his chest, splitting it into thirds, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He threw the sports coat over his shoulders, satisfied that the lines were mostly hidden.

Sherlock fished the phone from his pocket, wondering if he had failed to notice a text from John as well. He had, the address of the restaurant. Sherlock shook his head. What was wrong with him?

***

“Oh my God,” John giggled, flushed up with drink. “The receptionist and the hotel manager? Are you sure?”

The lift dinged, opening to the hall outside the penthouse. “Absolutely. You saw her hair, and his belt was done up to the wrong notch.”

“How do you know he didn’t gain or lose some weight?”

Sherlock gave John the side eye as they sauntered towards the door. “If he’d been wearing it that way for more than a few minutes, the leather would have conformed to the buckle at least a little. He’d just done that, and you don’t buckle your belt in the wrong place unless you’re in a hurry.”

“Incredible.” John shook his head, a smile blooming on his features as he clumsily unlocked the door.

Sherlock’s face heated, along with a growing warmth unfurling from his chest like cream in a cup of tea. He shuffled up behind John, curling over him and planting a kiss on the back of his neck. John shivered, a tiny laugh bubbling up as he turned the knob and stumbled forward as the door opened.

Sherlock stumbled after, wrapping his arms around John’s waist. He probably should have had less to drink at dinner--lowered inhibitions could be risky in his current situation--but at the moment, he didn’t care. It just felt good to laugh with John, feel the warmth of his body, hear his voice call Sherlock incredible.

“Say it again,” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear.

John turned his head to Sherlock’s ear, his lips dragging against Sherlock’s cheek in the process. “Amazing.” 

He kissed Sherlock just below the ear, pushing Sherlock’s sports coat from his shoulders. “Fantastic.” 

His nose skimming over Sherlock’s chin, John kissed below Sherlock’s other ear. “Incredible. Gorgeous. Brilliant. Nonpareil.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fell shut. “Your vocabulary turns me on.”

“Well, in that case...” John pulled back enough to look in Sherlock’s eyes, his hands curled over Sherlock’s elbow. “Phenomenal. Breathtaking.”

Sherlock stepped forward, towards the bedroom, as he slid his hands over John’s neck and down his shoulders, making his jacket fall to the floor. Sherlock kicked it aside as they walked. The corner of his mouth quirked. “And?”

“Stunning. Remarkable. Magnificent.” John’s hands dropped to Sherlock’s waist, hanging on as he let Sherlock steer them around the dining table and into the bedroom. The look on his face as his knees hit the back of the lounger was priceless, though the way he squeezed Sherlock’s sides was slightly less pleasant.

A high-pitched noise barked from Sherlock’s mouth as his abdominals contracted, and John flopped onto the lounger wracked with giggles. He clutched his stomach, his face luminous with glee. Sherlock tried looking stern. He really did. It wasn’t funny that he had what could possibly be construed as a ticklish reaction to John squeezing his sides, but John was dazzling, his face flushed with mirth and drink, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile in return.

But that didn’t mean he had no intention of cutting the laughter short. No, he had the perfect means for that. All it took was to lift one foot, stretch it over the width of the lounger, and plant it on the other side. And wouldn’t you know it? As Sherlock’s arse settled onto John’s upper thighs, the laughter died away.

Sherlock reached for the first fastened button of John’s shirt. Raising an eyebrow as he worked it free, he said, “You were saying, doctor?”

John’s hands slid up and down Sherlock’s outer thighs. “You’re incredible.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock smirked, undoing the last of John’s buttons. “I believe you’ve used that one already.”

At that, John surged up, his nose colliding with Sherlock’s, but he stopped just short, his mouth mere millimeters from Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s mouth popped open, and he swayed, unsure how to react. His hands balled tight into John’s shirt, holding him in place, but neither of them moved to close the scant distance between them.

“I mean it,” John said, and Sherlock felt it as much as he heard it, the breath and vibration powerful against his lips. God, he wanted to close the distance. John’s lips were like a beacon, drawing him in, and each passing second made it harder to resist. Made it harder to remember why he was resisting in the first place.

They stayed there, frozen in place, for several seconds that grew and stretched as Sherlock’s gaze flitted from John’s eyes to mouth until they blurred together into something that looked suspiciously like a flame that would either warm Sherlock to the core or consume and destroy him. And finally, for the first time in possibly ever, he felt that either outcome would be preferable to the alternative, to holding himself aloof from John. He wanted the fire.

“This is a touching display, really. I might cry,” came a soft, lilting voice behind Sherlock.

Sherlock’s fists clenched around John’s shirt until he heard seams creak and pop. He glanced down at John, who looked frightened, his fingers tight around Sherlock’s legs. But more than that, he looked angry, like he might fly from the chair at any second to throttle Moriarty.

It was the sexiest Sherlock had ever seen John, but if he didn’t avert the eruption of Mount Watson, it could only spell disaster. No matter how much he might want to see it.

Sherlock forced the tension from his body in one mighty gust of air, peering over his shoulder without disengaging from John’s lap. Moriarty sat directly across from them, barely perceptible if Sherlock hadn’t known he was there. The lights from the front room were still bright in Sherlock’s eyes, while Moriarty was illuminated only by the city lights that managed to make their way through the curtains.

“Please, do go on,” Moriarty said, his teeth a beacon in the low light.

Questions flitted through Sherlock’s mind in rapid fire. What was he doing here? How did he know where to find Sherlock? How did he get up here? But the answer was obvious. He didn’t need to ask any out loud to hear the answer plain as day.

“Billy,” Sherlock huffed, getting up from the chair. His fingers grazed his empty back pocket on the way to his hips as he paced a small square on the carpet.

“That’s right.” Moriarty flicked the keycard onto the coffee table. “Thought you might want this back.”

Sherlock leveled a glare at the vague shape that was Moriarty. “How very considerate of you.”

“I’m nothing if not polite.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Wait,” John interjected. “Who is Billy?”

As Sherlock flipped on the lights, he said, “My flatmate.”

John’s eyes widened. “This is your flatmate? I thought he was your… Or he wasn’t, but he claimed to be your--”

“Pimp?” Moriarty asked. “Oh, he’s embarrassed to say it. How”--Moriarty gestured at the air as though stirring a fog, frowning in thought--“adorable.” He sniffed, tugging at a stray thread on his trouser cuff. “No, Scott has so far denied my offers of employment, but I do hope he’ll change his mind.”

With a wicked grin, Moriarty eyed Sherlock.

At that, John was out of his seat, his fist clenched at his sides. He sniffed. “Just who do you think you are?”

“Jim Moriarty.” The wicked grin settled into something more placid. “Hi.”

“And just what exactly do you hope to accomplish by breaking into my hotel room? Hmm?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “He’s hoping that by threatening you, he can convince me to come work for him.”

“Billy tells me you’re quite taken with him.” Moriarty grimaced, sniffing the air. “I can’t say that I see the appeal.”

“Remind me to kill Billy when I get home,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, gladly. I’ll be thrilled to get rid of him. He has become rather a thorn in my side, though”--he gestured to Sherlock as if he were a prize on The Price Is Right--“he has his uses.”

“This is lovely. Brilliant,” John interjected. “I’m glad you two have the chance to catch up, really, but I’d like to get on with my evening without a madman in my bedroom. Excuse me.”

John crossed towards the phone at the bedside. Sherlock took a step to stop him, but his intention was cut off.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned Moriarty.

John spun, steam rising from his hair. “And just why is that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing in exasperation. Of course. He wouldn’t go anywhere without…

“Seb?” Moriarty called. “Could you come out please?”

A flush sounded from the bathroom, and a moment later, Seb walked out, looming large in the frame, and closed the door behind him. Moriarty’s gaze followed, and Sherlock took the opportunity to sneak his phone from his pocket, clasping it behind his back.

“Give that a few minutes,” Seb said, looking around at no one in particular until his questioning gaze landed on Moriarty. Moriarty raised his eyebrows, nodding in John’s direction, and Seb nodded. He stepped between John and the phone, crossing his arms and looking imposing, the two things he was best at.

Moriarty smiled. “That would be why. I can offer further demonstration if you like.”

John’s fists clenched and released by his sides, and his head tilted dangerously to one side. “Do you really think this is going to stop me?”

“Think you can buy your way out of this, doctor?” Moriarty asked with a melodramatic eyeroll.

John shook his head once, a grin spreading across his features. “No.”

God, John was magnificent like this, but as much as Sherlock thrilled at the thought, he would rather not get into a brawl in the penthouse of a fancy hotel. He palpated the keys on his phone. _9-1-1. Send._ Thank God for cheap burners.

“Oh,” Moriarty pouted. “That’s unfortunate, Doctor John Hamish Watson, Eleven Montepelier Walk, Knightsbridge, London. I was rather hoping you would.”

John spun on his heel, crooking his head like a curious dog, as Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered out of control. “Pardon?” John asked.

Moriarty made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan for an absolutely interminable time. “I hate repeating myself. Can’t you just figure it out?”

John glanced to Sherlock, whose mind was still looping on John’s address, on the image of Moriarty and Seb pawing through John’s things.

“You think I’ll pay you to leave because--what--you know where I live?”

“Don’t be stupid, John,” Sherlock bit, the words out before he realized what he was doing. His mind raced to catch up to the present tense, and he blanched. He wanted to apologize to John, and wasn’t that just the whole problem in a nutshell. “He wants to blackmail you.”

Moriarty touched the side of his nose with the tip of his index finger as he pulled a folder from underneath his chair. “What might your colleagues think of you hiring a street-corner whore?” He flipped through the pages. Resumes. “So many names and phone numbers. I hardly know where to start.”

Sherlock collapsed onto the lounger, dropping the phone behind him before balancing his head between his fingertips. Why did disaster follow him everywhere? This was just supposed to be quick money to get him into a different flat.

Moriarty raised his eyebrows to John, gesturing towards the lounger. “Why don’t you have a seat next to your lover? I’m eager to start the negotiations.”

Sherlock snorted. Negotiations his arse.

John didn’t move. “Like hell I will.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He pulled his mobile from the inner pocket of his jacket. “What time is it? Do you think”--he flipped open the folder, squinting at the first page--”Doctor Gregson will be asleep yet?”

Moriarty glanced back and forth between John and Sherlock, his mobile balanced on the palm of his hand. John surged forward, but Seb caught him by the arm, twisting it up behind his back. John landed with a grunt, face first on the bed. Seb pressed his body weight into John’s back. It had to hurt like hell, but John didn’t cry out. He remained still, but Sherlock couldn’t be sure if that was stoicism or just the inability to get enough breath.

Sherlock scrambled from his chair but paused as Seb reached for John’s throat. As his thumb pressed to John’s carotid, he leveled Sherlock with a steely gaze.

“Let him up,” Sherlock growled, and without moving another muscle, Seb turned his head to look at Moriarty.

Everything went still, and for a moment, Sherlock’s panicking brain tried to tell him that time had stopped. The only thing reminding him that time still moved were weak grunts from John’s direction. He was still trying to free himself though pinned from neck to knee by Seb’s far superior weight. Probably using up vital oxygen. Even without Seb closing his fingers over John’s throat, John could only take shallow breaths. He’d survive, but eventually, he’d lose consciousness.

Sherlock’s gaze darted around the room searching for something, anything, that could give him tactical advantage, but Moriarty was between him and John. It would take time for him to stand. Perhaps Sherlock could get to Seb before him, but then what? He had to think. _God damn it. Think!_ But, all his thoughts were consumed by the timer of John’s consciousness ticking down.

“Stop it!” Sherlock shouted. Finally, Moriarty nodded to Seb, and Seb stepped back. Once Seb’s weight was gone from his back, John heaved in a deep, gasping breath, and Sherlock let his out.

“There now,” Moriarty said, smoothing his jacket though he hadn’t moved a muscle. “Perhaps we can continue this in a more civilised manner. Now, Doctor Gregson. Should we give her a call? I know it’s considered rude to call so late, but--nah--we can risk it.”

John got unsteadily to his feet, his chest still heaving as though he’d just finished a marathon. He swallowed, putting his hands on his hips as he gathered enough breath to speak. “What do you want?”

“Oh…” Moriarty tapped the corner of his mobile against his lower lip. “I think a quarter-mil ought to do it, don’t you?” He looked to Sherlock and then Seb, nodding. “Two hundred and fifty thousand? Sounds good to me, too.”

John actually had the audacity to laugh. “You’ve lost your mind--”

“I did that a long time ago, darling.”

“--There’s no way I’m paying that. Go ahead. Call all the names on list. Do you want my address book? I can email it to you.”

Moriarty shrugged, skating his finger across the top of the page in his lap. “If you insist.”

Moriarty tapped each number into the phone, slowly, methodically, checking it against the resume after each digit. The ploy was an obvious one, giving John time to change his mind before pressing send. If John thought Moriarty was bluffing, he was sorely mistaken. He’d be ruined. Why wasn’t he stopping Moriarty? Was it pride? Wouldn’t pride make the prospect of this first phone call unbearable? Sure, the amount was preposterous, but he could at least try to negotiate.

As Sherlock heard the warbling tones of the phone ringing, his gaze snapped from John’s stoic face to Moriarty’s smug one. Still, John made no move to stop Moriarty. The phone rang a second time.

A third.

“For God’s sake, stop it,” Sherlock snapped. He would be damned if he let John’s idiocy or whatever this was ruin his career. Not to mention the attention it would put on Sherlock. Knowing Moriarty, John wouldn’t just be employing the services of a male streetwalker. Moriarty would give lurid, explicit details about Sherlock’s looks and dress and what he imagined they got up to, which would most likely be far kinkier than anything they actually did.

As the phone rang a fourth time, Sherlock had an epiphany.

“This call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system…”

Moriarty wasn’t interested in the money. He made more than what he was asking in a month.

Moriarty hung up the phone, looking like he was trying to enter a funny face competition. “Looks like we have a stay of execution.”

“Could we drop the charade?” Sherlock asked.

“Charade?” Moriarty, mocking Sherlock’s pronunciation, tossed the folder and mobile on the coffee table, lounging back in his chair. “I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

Sherlock stepped up to Moriarty, looming over him. He spotted Seb closing in from the corner of his eye, but without breaking Sherlock’s gaze, Moriarty held up a hand to stop him.

“This isn’t about money,” Sherlock said. “This was never about money. You’re here because you have a bruised ego.”

“And a sprained wrist, don’t forget.”

“Of course. It must be hard being such a wanker without the use of your right hand.”

Moriarty jerked his head to the side. “I have Seb for that.”

“Oh, but he never touches you. He wants to, but you won’t let him. No, you prefer to watch, and it’s not the sex that gets you off. It’s the humiliation. So,”--here, he slowed down, over-enunciating each word--“let’s drop the charade.”

Moriarty clapped. “Very astute, Scott. Very astute.” He looked to John as he pointed to Sherlock. “You can see why I want him, can’t you?”

“I swear to God.” John shook his head, his voice quiet, dangerous. He was a spring about to snap. “I will hurt you.”

“He’s territorial, that one.”

“Just shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “What is it you really want? What will get you out of here without dragging John’s name through the mud?”

Moriarty propped his chin on the heel of his hand, tapping his cheek in a mockery of consideration. “I want Seb to fuck you while your John watches.”

Sherlock did his best to hide the way his insides lurched and twisted, instead keeping his face placid. He gave a curt nod. “Very well.”

As Sherlock backed away from Moriarty, John shot forward. He grabbed Sherlock’s elbow, his face filled with more emotions than Sherlock could name.

“Scott, I can’t let you do this.”

Sherlock wrapped his own hand over John’s elbow, giving it a squeeze. “It’ll be all right. Trust me.”

Sherlock dipped his head, staring into John’s eyes until John’s nervous flitting caught his gaze. He pressed his middle finger and thumb against the joint of John’s elbow, enough to cause pain without being obvious to their onlookers. John raised his eyebrows. With his forefinger, he tapped John’s skin--three short, one short, one long three short. Repeating the taps, Sherlock turned his eyes to Moriarty, keeping them trained there for a moment before looking back to John.

John’s eyebrows dropped.

“As much as I love a good stare, can we move it along, please?” asked Moriarty.

Sherlock gave John’s elbow one last squeeze, and John gave a barely perceptible nod. He dropped his grip from Sherlock’s arm and stepped back. Sidling closer to Moriarty, John swung his arms behind his back, his left hand moving as though he were trying to expel his fingers.

Sherlock gave John one last glance before turning to Moriarty. “On the bed?”

“No.” Moriarty slouched in his chair, and as he crossed his legs, his foot hit John’s shin. “On the floor, I think. Hands and knees.”

John stepped back from Moriarty’s tapping foot, putting him almost directly behind the chair. His position was so perfect that Sherlock could barely contain a smile.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow at Moriarty. “Shouldn’t I undress first?”

Moriarty chuckled. “Just like you are. I’m going to have Seb cut a hole in your pretty new clothes.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. God, how predictable. John cleared his throat, rocking on his feet. His hands were still clasped behind his back, but even through the plaid on John’s shirt, Sherlock could see the muscles straining, holding himself back.

Moriarty sneered, cocking his head towards John. “I don’t think he likes that idea. Go on. Hands and knees.”

Sherlock’s breath gusted from his lungs as he turned away. _Just a few more seconds._ He turned around, dropping to his knees, walking out his hands until he could comfortably brace his weight on them. His body was taut, his muscles filled with potential energy, his heart racing in anticipation. _Go on, Jim. Tell your toady what you want him to do._

“Seb, if you would be so kind as to drop your pants.”

“Sir,” Seb gruffed, and as Sherlock watched over his shoulder, Seb pulled a folded knife from his pocket.

Sherlock’s head snapped around, his gaze darting. Shit. He wasn’t supposed to get out the knife yet.

Sherlock swallowed. Nothing to be done for it now. He peered back in time to see Seb undoing his jeans, fumbling as he attempted to hold the knife--still folded, thank God--and work open the button at the same time. Sherlock nearly huffed in impatience as Seb struggled. Finally, Seb got his flies down and grabbed his waistband.

Just as Seb’s hands reached the middle of his thighs, Sherlock said, “ _Seb_.”

“What?” Seb asked, and just behind him, John thrust the blade of his hand under Moriarty’s nose, pulling him over the back of the chair.

Seb startled at the sound. He turned, but before he could even move his hands, Sherlock’s leg shot out. His heel hit Seb’s shin. Seb wobbled. Sherlock pushed up to his hands and feet, sweeping his leg. Seb hit the ground, and Sherlock popped up.

Sherlock couldn’t spot much of what was going on behind Moriarty’s chair, but he didn’t have time to suss it out. He kicked Seb in the stomach. Seb curled in on himself, instinctively protecting his internal organs.

“Hold still, you fucker,” John shouted, and Sherlock heard the crack of bone hitting bone.

Sherlock stomped on the hand holding the knife. Seb’s other hand shot out, grabbing onto the cuff of Sherlock’s trousers. He yanked. Sherlock teetered back. He pushed his shoulders forward. His forward momentum wrenched Seb’s hand from the fabric, but Sherlock stumbled. The top of his back foot hit Seb’s body. Sherlock tumbled forward. He caught himself on his hands.

A hand wrapped like a vice around his ankle, and Sherlock kicked. He kicked and kicked again, flailing for any flesh he could meet until the hand released. Sherlock jumped to his feet. He glanced behind him to see Seb doing the same, one hand clasped on his trousers. As Seb got his other hand underneath himself, Sherlock darted for the bathroom.

He could hear Seb’s huge feet lumbering behind him, vibrating the floor. His heart in his throat, Sherlock stomped the center of his foot on the edge of the tub. He surged upwards, clearing the tub and landing on the other side. His feet kept moving, and he caught himself on the counter.

His gaze shot up, spotting John’s spray deodorant and Seb’s reflection at the same time. He grabbed the bottle. He spun on Seb, sprayed Seb’s eyes, and slammed his forehead to the bridge of Seb’s nose. Seb stumbled backwards, instinctively reaching for his face as he stumbled backwards, his jeans caught around his knees. Unfortunately for him, the rim of the bathtub also caught on his knees, and he went down like a sack of potatoes, his skull clacking against the edge.

_Still breathing. Pity._

Sherlock spun the deodorant in the air, slamming it on the counter as he muttered, “Moron.”

At a grunt, Sherlock’s ears perked up. He grabbed the knife from the floor next to Seb’s unconscious form. He ran, flipping the knife open as he went.

As he skidded into the bedroom, Sherlock found John on top of Moriarty. Moriarty’s arm was wrenched behind his back, his fingers bent far beyond human range of motion. He grunted in pain, his nose bleeding profusely.

“They’ll never get that out of the carpet,” Sherlock said.

John laughed for a moment before his face went stern. Moriarty grunted and wriggled beneath him. “Can you get me something to tie him up with?”

A smile tugged at Sherlock’s mouth. “Of course.”

Sherlock hurried into the bathroom, stripping the dressing gowns of their ties, and handed them to John. John’s eyebrows jumped at Sherlock’s choice, but he used them all the same.

As he hog-tied Moriarty, John said, “Where’s the other one?”

“Bathroom. Unconscious.”

“Do we need to tie him up, too?”

Sherlock sniffed, shrugging one shoulder. “He’ll be out for a while.”

John laughed again, though he tried to hold it in. Found it inappropriate. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Oh, God,” John sighed, stretching his back. “I shouldn’t be laughing. This is a crime scene.”

“Dull.”

John smiled, radiating like the sun and warming something deep within Sherlock.

A spitting sound came from the floor, and Moriarty teetered like a tortoise on its back. “Dear God. Put me out of my misery.”

“I’d be careful saying that,” Sherlock said. “I just might take you up on it.”

John squeezed Sherlock’s arm. “I think a better plan would be calling security.”

As John made his way to the phone, Sherlock spun. “John.”

Phone in hand, John looked over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Let them know that we’ve already called the police.”

“We did. When?”

Sherlock jerked his head to the side. “Earlier.”

John shook his head, pressing the button for the front desk. “Incredible.”

“You’ve used that one.”

John burst into giggles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks once again to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life and monikakrasnorada.
> 
> If you gave the third scene a skip and need a tl;dr, here it is. Moriarty broke into the penthouse and threatened them, but they kicked his ass.
> 
> Thanks for reading; thanks for the patience in my glacial updating speed, and thanks for all the lovely comments and kudos. ❤️


	18. It's a very big step for me.

Sherlock propped himself against the dining room table, watching a Detective Baynes talk to John. John kept glancing over at Sherlock, giving him a tight smile, and going back to his conversation. The wonder twins had been hauled away, most likely to the hospital en route to jail. It felt good to be rid of Moriarty, but anxiety still prickled at Sherlock’s skin.

The charges from this incident wouldn’t be enough to keep Moriarty in jail. He would be granted bond by the morning, and when Moriarty had revenge in mind, he got it. This had most likely been the only time he’d been thwarted, and that would only make his ire greater. He’d come back with designs on murder, which meant the only options were to either get John out of town tonight or make sure Moriarty stayed in jail.

After a moment, the detective handed John a business card and walked over to Sherlock. “Mr. Jones?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re Scott Jones, yes?”

Sherlock nodded, shaking away the cobwebs. John must have made up a last name for him. “Yes.”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened here tonight.” The detective tapped the back end of his pen against his notebook.

“Of course.” Sherlock paused, sucking in a deep breath. “Listen, Detective, are you familiar with Jim Moriarty at all?”

“Can’t say I am.”

“All right.” Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. “You should consult with a vice detective. If they haven’t had dealings with the man himself, they’ve likely dealt with his network. It might also be good to notify homicide. I noticed a few flakes of blood at the hinge of Moran’s knife. He’s a sloppy man, but the absence of blood on the blade suggests that he cleaned it and missed a small amount, and the placement suggests that it was either a deep wound or it bled quite a lot. Either way, you’re likely looking at homicide, so you should check the blood against DNA samples from unsolved cases. Actually, check it against solved cases as well. I wouldn’t put it above them to frame someone. And attempted murders just to be safe.”

Detective Baynes blinked, his pen poised above the paper.

Sherlock took the pen and pad. “Also, you should go to this address. Billy Wiggins lives there. He’s not directly involved in Moriarty’s network, but he’s been keen to. If you offer him leniency or even just threaten him with a possession charge, he’ll fold like a cheap card table. He should provide you with a good starting point for busting the drug and prostitution rings. If you can get a search warrant, I’d also suggest you raid The Blue Banana. I’ll write down the address for you. There is an office upstairs off the VIP lounge. As heavily as he guards it, there’s certain to be valuable information there. Perhaps the real version of his books for his legitimate businesses. Check them against his tax returns, and you’re sure to find discrepancies.”

Detective Baynes took back his notebook, surveying Sherlock’s scrawled notes. “How do you know all this?”

“I don’t know. I observe.”

Baynes nodded. Suspicion flashed across his features, but he obviously chose not to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Right. Thank you. I’m sure this will be very useful. Have you ever worked in law enforcement?”

“God, no.”

“Well, I’d say you have a talent for it. I still need to ask you some questions about what happened tonight.”

Sherlock nodded, his gaze wandering to John. “Of course.”

Detective Baynes started on the very predictable round of questions, which made it difficult for Sherlock to concentrate on what he was saying. He answered them on automatic pilot, giving vague descriptions of the night’s events as he watched John.

John walked over to Lestrade, who was waiting by the chair, contemplating the stain behind it. Someone had already taken samples, not that the blood would tell them anything they didn’t already know. There might be hints of John’s blood in it--he did have abrasions on his knuckles--but that was easy enough to surmise without any testing. Lestrade was obviously perturbed. The longer the stain was allowed to sit, the harder it would be to get out.

Sherlock watched John and Lestrade chat about just that fact until a small white rectangle thrust itself beneath his chin. Flinching despite himself, Sherlock grasped the card between his index and middle fingers and took it with a tight smile.

“Give me a call if you think of anything else,” said Detective Baynes. “Just a few more minutes, and we should be able to get out of your hair.”

Baynes started to walk away, but he stopped. He turned to Sherlock, pointing to the card in his hand.

“Give that some thought,” Baynes said. “If you get yourself licensed as a PI, I might be able to get you on as a consultant.”

The skin above Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Why would you do that?”

Baynes shrugged. “You have talent.” He closed the distance between them, leaning conspiratorially into Sherlock’s space. “And I hate to see talent like yours wasted in your current profession.”

“How?” Sherlock winced. “Did John--”

“Oh no, nothing like that. It wasn’t that hard to figure out, but let’s just keep it between us, all right?”

“Of course.”

With a pat on Sherlock’s arm, Baynes crossed to John and Lestrade. Sherlock struggled to regain his composure, instead fingering the business card in his hand as he watched the three men chat.

Private investigator? It certainly was an idea. He’d much rather be putting away men like Moriarty than having to deal with them. Not to mention it sounded a lot less messy. But then, he doubted he could get licensed under a false identity, and any attempt to do so under his real name would attract Mycroft’s attention and likely land him trapped in London.

As Baynes shook hands with John and Lestrade, Sherlock considered ripping the card into tiny pieces, but he slipped it into his back pocket instead. With that, Baynes left, gesturing for the straggling officers to come along and nodding to Sherlock on his way out.

“We can get a cleaning crew up here in the morning.” Lestrade scratched at his stubble. He’d been at work several hours later than planned. Likely his dalliance with the receptionist was already outside of his working hours. “In the meantime, I can get you a new room. I don’t believe we have any suites available. It will be a standard room, but of course, we’ll refund the difference.”

“Thank you.” John offered his hand. “I think we’d rather just be going to bed.”

“I can’t let you… It’s a biohazard.”

John chuckled, brandishing his abraded knuckles. “It’s a bit too late to worry about that. Besides, it’s just a few drops. I think we’ll survive.”

Lestrade looked uncertain, but he said, “All right. Call down to the front desk when you’re ready to have the room cleaned.”

John shook his hand. “Thank you, Greg.”

Lestrade nodded, turning to Sherlock and shaking his hand.

“Get back to Ms. Hooper,” Sherlock said. “She must be wondering what happened to you.”

“All right.” Lestrade eyed him askance, his brows furrowing. “Thank you.”

 

Sherlock nodded, and John followed Lestrade out. As they went, Sherlock toed off his shoes, kicking them to the corner, where they landed in a thudding tumble. He collapsed into the lounger, the same one where he had been straddling John only hours before. The one where they almost kissed before Moriarty ruined everything.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, his vision blurred with exhaustion. God, John had been brilliant, reading Sherlock’s signals perfectly, and the way he took out Moriarty. Jesus, what a wonder. How did this man--this man who should be the most ordinary human he’d ever met--continue to surprise him? If they knew each other for years, would the pattern hold true?

He couldn’t be sure, but for the first time, Sherlock wanted to find out.

“Just the two of us,” John said, apparently having returned from seeing out Lestrade. “Finally.”

Sherlock dropped his hands from his eyes to see John sitting perpendicular to Sherlock at the foot of the lounger, untying his shoes. John was smiling. He was actually smiling. He was actually smiling at Sherlock, his face full of warmth and affection. When was the last time someone looked at him like that? Before he came to America, certainly. He’d never thought to miss it, but he couldn’t fathom how he’d lived without it. How had he lived in a world for so long where no one looked at him like that?

He would blame it on exhaustion if asked, but in that moment, Sherlock couldn’t help but surge forward, taking John’s face between his hands and kissing him. It seemed imperative, like if he waited any longer, he would lose the opportunity forever. And that just could not stand. He could no longer imagine a life in which he had never kissed John Watson.

He simply pressed their lips together at first, smirking at the little squeak that escaped John’s nose. He pressed a kiss to each corner of John’s mouth as John sat still, eyes closed as if he were frozen in place. But then John caught up, overtaking Sherlock in a rush of tongue and body. His own hands caught Sherlock around the waist, tugging him closer, and Sherlock slid down the lounger with a muffled grunt.

They both laughed, their noses bumping and hands roaming. God, it felt good. So good that Sherlock had to taste John again. He lifted his head, nudging with his nose and chin until John’s face was at the perfect angle. And then John took the hint. He took it perfectly, pressing their mouths together, sweeping his tongue across Sherlock’s. His hands were in Sherlock’s hair, his body a comforting weight on Sherlock’s.

“God, John,” Sherlock moaned, ripping his mouth from John’s for breath. “You were brilliant.”

“Were?” John asked, nipping at Sherlock’s jaw before nibbling on his earlobe. “I thought I was being brilliant right now.”

With a hedonistic roll of John’s body against his, Sherlock had to concede the point. “Yes, John. Yes.”

John sat up, Sherlock’s legs draped over either side of his thighs, and Sherlock had to bite back a whine, though he wouldn’t have been able to say if he was whining about the loss of John’s body or at the sexy-as-fuck picture they made. He wanted his phone to take a photo, but it was in the living room, and fuck all if he was going to move from this spot for anything.

John reached for Sherlock’s waist, tugging his shirt from the waistband of his trousers. “Do you want to talk brilliant? You’ve had me in awe since the moment you knocked on my window. God, how do you do that?”

Sherlock arched his back, stretching like a cat settling in a sunbeam. “Years of practice.”

John chuckled as he worked the buttons free of Sherlock’s shirt. “I don’t know. I think that’s just you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, color rising on his cheeks. “You are certainly entitled to that opinion.”

John grabbed the loose lapels of Sherlock’s shirt, pulling on them, and Sherlock happily acquiesced to the pressure until he was sitting up. Their faces were close enough to share breath, and Sherlock felt dizzy with it. He swayed in John’s grip, reaching out to tether himself.

“Shut up,” John gruffed, ensuring that Sherlock did just that. Their lips dragged and slid against one another, messy and wet and perfect. It was all such a stark reminder of why he didn’t do this. He was being swept away like a raft of reeds in a tropical storm. His lips tingled, warmth spreading through his chest. He wished for nothing more than to be closer to John, but despite his best efforts, his arms couldn’t pull them together enough.

The buttons of John’s shirt chilled Sherlock’s skin, and it felt offensive. He didn’t want fabric against his skin. He wanted every molecule of his body to be covered up in John. So, with a growl so feral it startled the both of them, Sherlock clawed at John’s buttons. He ripped the tails of John’s shirt from his trousers. He tugged and strained against John’s belt and flies until they were loose over John’s hips. And all the while, his mouth never left John’s, though he couldn’t say if he could call what they were doing kissing any longer.

“Whoa,” John managed before Sherlock swallowed it up, his hands pushing at John’s trousers.

John pressed against Sherlock’s shoulders, a gentle but constant pressure, until Sherlock shifted his weight back. A whine escaped his lips, and he managed to gain the wherewithal to be embarrassed about it. He could feel the flush rising from his neck, rushing over his ears to pool in his cheeks, and he closed his eyes. God, years of cool detachment and he had been rendered dumb by a few sloppy kisses.

John’s hands glided down Sherlock’s arms until he could intertwine their fingers. One by one, he kissed each of Sherlock’s fingertips. “Relax. We have time.”

But they didn’t. John left the day after tomorrow, and who knew what would happen then? They couldn’t very well continue what they had going. John had to go back to London, and Sherlock had to get the hell out of Dodge before Mycroft or Moriarty caught up with him. Or worse, caught up with John.

“Hey,” John said, placing his palm on Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock opened his eyes to see John searching his face, his eyebrows lifted so high one couldn’t tell where the eyebrows ended and the hairline began.

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock swallowed back the rising tide, pasting his best smile on his face. Best to enjoy tonight. There was no use working himself up over the inevitable.

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Kiss me again.”

John smiled, guiding Sherlock’s face to his. This kiss was different--gentle, tender--and it left Sherlock feeling flayed. Part of him wanted to push towards the strictly sexual, wrap himself in persona. He wanted to protect himself from this surge of emotion, keep himself from becoming vulnerable. But another, woefully neglected part of himself basked in it, unfurling like a flower in sunlight.

His heart raced, jumping in his throat like a hyperactive bullfrog. Words tried to push their way past, words he’d never said before in his life, but he pushed them back.

Instead, as John’s mouth strayed to Sherlock’s Adam’s apple, teeth grazing the skin there, Sherlock sighed, “Fuck me. Please. I want you inside me.”

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, giving the bottom one a quick nip before saying, “Anything you want.”

John stood, taking Sherlock’s hand as he turned towards the bed. However, only a few steps into the journey, he stopped short. “I haven’t had a chance to buy condoms.”

“Do I have to think of everything?” Rolling his eyes, Sherlock dropped John’s hand, reaching into one of the shopping bags to pull out a small plastic drug store bag. He tossed the lube to John and ripped open the condom package to take one out.

As Sherlock crossed the room, he worked his belt free, dropping his trousers and pants in one fell swoop. Without breaking stride, he stepped out of them. “Are you usually this neglectful of safe sex?”

“No.” John hauled Sherlock over by the shirt before pushing it from his shoulders. “I never imagined I’d get this lucky.”

Once again, color rose unbidden in Sherlock’s cheeks. “Why doctor, you flatter me.”

John kissed Sherlock’s clavicle as he let his own shirt drop from his shoulders. “Good. That’s what I was going for.”

Beaming, John took the condom packet from Sherlock’s hand and set both items on the bedside table. And as he leaned over, Sherlock pounced. He rushed up behind John, letting his cock slide against the small of John’s back as his hands slipped over John’s hips, pushing aside pants until he could get a good grip on John’s arse. God, what an arse. He wanted to bite it. In fact, what was stopping him?

Taking the remains of John’s clothing with him, Sherlock dropped to his knees, and as his hand skated over John’s shins and knees, crisp hairs tickling his palms, he sank his teeth in. John shouted, his hips kicking forward before he devolved into giggles. Giggles that quickly evaporated into sighs as Sherlock’s hands continued their path upwards, palms sliding up the fronts of thighs, teasing at the edges of John’s groin before settling on his hips, holding him still for the assault of Sherlock’s mouth.

God, he could worship this body, kiss and taste every inch of it from the crown of John’s head to the tips of his toes, and he was more than happy to start with this pert little arse, his lickable sacrum, his powerful thighs. Sherlock stretched, tracing John’s vertebrae, and John shivered. And Jesus Christ, but that was hot. Sherlock did it again, and each time John shivered, it sent a sympathetic pulse straight down Sherlock’s spine.

His hands working under their own direction, Sherlock kneaded the muscles of John’s cheeks, spreading them open, his thumbs sweeping down John’s cleft. Sherlock flinched at the realization of how slick they were, embarrassed to discover how sloppy he’d become, how much he drooled. But then, John groaned. He fell forward, catching himself on the bedside table, and pushed his hips back.

“God, Scott.” John’s thighs trembled under Sherlock’s hands. “Do that again.”

Sherlock’s breath rushed from his lungs as if he had been gut punched, fanning the fine hairs at the crest of John’s buttocks. John shivered again, and Sherlock’s vision went hazy with a rush of lust, as if all the blood in his brain had rushed straight to his cock. If the way his cocked throbbed were any indication, it had.

So, with a whimper he would have to remind himself to be embarrassed about later, Sherlock pressed his mouth to the top of John’s cleft, letting saliva drip past his bottom lip as his tongue circled. John gasped at the feeling, and Sherlock grazed his teeth over John’s sacrum before sweeping his thumbs between John’s cheeks once more.

His own gasp escaped as he felt John’s hole flutter against the tips of his thumbs, felt the way John’s muscles changed shape as his cock bobbed and his hips canted. Oh, how he ached to feel that again, but first, he pressed the pads of his thumbs to John’s perineum, lifting John’s buttocks with his palms.

“Jesus,” Sherlock sighed before fanning out his fingers, watching his thumbs retrace their steps. John’s arse was flushed, mottled with the marks of Sherlock’s attention. It was beautiful, but even as he watched his palms spreading John open, his thumbs sweeping up and down, he could see how they started to fade. It was hateful. Sherlock wanted to leave a part of himself with John, tattoo himself to John’s skin.

With a firmer press of his thumbs, Sherlock sunk his teeth into the fleshiest part of John’s arse, sucking hard. John yelped, bucking forward at first, but then he pressed back against Sherlock’s mouth.

“God, yes,” John hissed, dropping to his elbows.

A muffled moan puffed from Sherlock’s nose, and he dug in like a starving man at a feast. He almost didn’t care if he broke the skin, but he managed to pull away before he did. He gasped, rocking back on his heels, sucking in breaths like a drowning man who had just surfaced. A bright red oval marred the swell of one cheek, putting all the other fading marks to shame. It would start to turn purple soon, and by the morning, John would feel a twinge every time he sat down.

Every time he sat, he would think of Sherlock. On the long plane ride to England, shifting in his seat to relieve the pressure, he would think of this night.

It still wasn’t permanent enough. God, it was so fleeting, but he didn’t have time to contemplate it any longer because John spun around. He stooped, taking Sherlock’s cheeks in his palms to kiss him.

Sherlock had to tilt his head to the sky like a charismatic worshipper as John closed in, looping one of his hands over Sherlock’s nape as the other slid down his collarbone. Sherlock stretched into the kiss, pressing his chest forward in anticipation as John’s fingers continued their journey south. He’d expected some attention to his nipples, perhaps fingers teasing down his abdomen, but instead, John hooked his hand under Sherlock’s armpit and pulled him up.

Sherlock made a noise that was definitely not a squeak, and acquiesced to the none-too-ambiguous request. Now John had to tip his head in imitation of adulation.

Though, Sherlock couldn’t be sure how much of a mockery it was because the next words that dripped like nectar from John’s mouth were, “God, you’re amazing.”

Sherlock hummed into John’s mouth, his fingers sliding down John’s back to the swell of his arse, gripping, fondling. He pressed his palms to the cheeks, pushing John’s hips forward until his cock slid against Sherlock’s thigh, leaving a trail of cooling moisture that made Sherlock shiver. Sherlock’s own cock thrusted against John’s stomach, the hair of his treasure trail a bit too rough on the underside, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to pull away. He would gladly take pleasure that bordered on pain to keep John’s talented lips and tongue on his, to keep the tip of John’s cock drawing wet arcs on his thigh.

John’s hands skated up Sherlock’s sides, starting at the thighs and ending with his fingertips brushing Sherlock’s underarms, which most certainly did not make Sherlock spasm. And then those fingers were trailing inwards, soft strokes against Sherlock’s pectorals making his areolae contract. His focus shrank to his nipples, the coordination of his hands and mouth evaporating. As John’s thumbs rolled over the erect flesh, Sherlock moaned half in and half out of John’s mouth. His hips kicked forward, and a pulse of arousal so intense it hurt raced straight from his nipples to his cock.

John broke free, dragging his lips down Sherlock’s chest. “I can’t believe how sensitive these are,” he said as his mouth met one of them. “It’s the sexiest fucking thing.”

John’s tongue swirled over one nipple, and as he blew cool air over it, Sherlock’s knees buckled. His arse hit the bed off center, with a bounce that sent his body over. The hand that still managed to keep its place on John’s arse clenched around it as the other flew out to catch himself.

John yelped, his hips surging forward, and as he toppled forward, catching himself on the edge of the bed with Sherlock’s hand still squeezing his arse cheek, he broke into a giggle. 

“What?” Sherlock asked, his eyes searching John’s delighted face like it held the mystery of the sphinx. His cheeks heated, and he felt anger welling in his gut. Was John laughing at him?

But, John turned to Sherlock, mirth lighting him up like a Christmas tree. He held Sherlock’s cheeks between his palms, swooping in for a kiss, a kiss so soft and sweet and sensual that the anger dissipated, suffusing warmth through his entire body. Sherlock sighed, skating his palms up and down John’s back.

God, John was a talented kisser, and although Sherlock’s cock had a very different say in the matter, Sherlock would have been happy with lazy kisses until morning.

Luckily for Sherlock’s cock, John had similar plans. Not long after he initiated the kiss, his body was crowding into Sherlock’s, coaxing him backwards until John could get his knees on the bed. They landed on either side of Sherlock’s hips, putting John on all fours above Sherlock’s supine body. Their lips broke apart, and Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered open. His gaze caught in John’s and a breath pushed from his lungs in a barely vocalized huff.

John’s pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen, his chin red and mottled from Sherlock’s stubble. He was gorgeous, and Sherlock just wanted his bodyweight pressing Sherlock down. But, John stayed on all fours, his breaths gusting in and out, ruffling Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock arched his back, his own knees rising in misguided attempt to bring John closer.

“John, please,” Sherlock whined as his fingers dug into John’s arse. God, his arse. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to feel John’s arse flexing under his palms. He wanted to feel the muscles shift as John pounded into him, hitting his prostate as only a doctor could. “Please.”

John dropped to his elbows, his knees sliding out until his inner thighs met the top of Sherlock’s. Their cocks nestled against each other, making Sherlock shiver and John groan. John’s hips thrust forward, and Sherlock’s palms got their first hint of what they truly wanted. Sherlock’s own hips canted, and he shifted and wriggled under John until their cocks could line up, silk against silk.

Although his hand lamented the loss of John’s arse, Sherlock could be consoled by the way their cocks felt pressed together in his grip, the way John’s body spasmed at the contact, the way his nose pressed against Sherlock’s clavicle. John’s teeth grazed just below the bone, his lips dragging over the sensitized skin as their bodies rocked together.

Sherlock was torn. John’s lips felt fantastic on his skin, teasing their way down his chest. Any second now they would close around a nipple, and God, if those teeth felt so good on his shoulder, just the extrapolation made him ache. But, his lips cried for attention. He wanted to feel John’s breath huff against his cheek, hear all the tiny sounds John made, find out how to make more. He wanted to share the same air. He wanted to feel John’s heartbeat thump against his chest.

So, dragging his other hand away from John’s perfect arse, Sherlock laid his palm over John’s jaw, pressing his own to his chest so he could see John look up at him. He could see those eyes, dark with arousal, look at him as if he were the moon. He could see them drift closed as John closed in until their mouths met. Sherlock felt hungry, like no matter how often or how deeply they kissed, he would never get his fill. 

John thrust against him, a movement that came more from his entire body than from his hips. The crisp hairs on his chest dragged against Sherlock’s, making Sherlock’s skin buzz like he was charged with electricity. His hands skated up and down Sherlock's sides, stroked his neck, settled on his hips to guide their movements. Sherlock moaned, the sound swallowed up by John’s mouth, caressed away with his lips and tongue. 

Without warning, John broke away, and Sherlock's mouth popped open on a gasp. A protest lay ready on his tongue, but John’s next move cut it off at the pass.

“John,” Sherlock groaned as John’s teeth grazed over his left nipple. Both hands flew to John’s hair, where he tangled his fingers. Even his palms felt lit up with sexual energy. He was alive with it. He could have lit the entire city.

Arousal hit him in waves, sweeping him away on the tide as John switched to the other side and then worked his way down Sherlock's torso. John's tongue swirled below his navel, making him shudder. His legs pulled up, out from under John, until he could spread them wide.

God, John's tongue. He’d be happy with whatever part of his body John chose to lick. If John licked his elbow, he’d probably find it unbearably erotic. But as it was, with John's lips and tongue exploring his lower abdomen and upper thighs, Sherlock was certain he was losing his mind. His fists clenched in John's hair before they flew to his own, doing their best to tear it out as he willed John's mouth to his cock. His back arched. His hips squirmed. His feet slid against the sheets, struggling for purchase, and an incoherent stream of syllables poured from his mouth.

John's tongue finally swirled over Sherlock's glans for one shining, fleeting moment before he popped up again. “Would you pass me the lube?”

“What?” Sherlock panted, his own head popping up. His brows furrowed as he failed to process the question, his brain too busy with its own. _Why the fuck did you stop?_

“The lube,” John repeated, pointing to the bedside table, and Sherlock's brain finally caught up.

Sherlock's hand flew out, nearly knocking the bottle off the table in his haste. He grabbed it, slapping it into John's hand with a, “Here.”

Sherlock flopped back onto the mattress, his arms and legs akimbo. He didn’t even care where they were anymore. Or how he looked. God, he was usually so concerned with it, putting on a display for whatever client happened to be there, but in that moment he couldn’t give two shits. He was certain he was a mess, but it didn’t matter when John’s breath was ghosting over his cock.

“John,” Sherlock complained. “What are you doing?”

After the click of a cap, John’s hand curled over the top of Sherlock’s cock, and he placed a quick kiss on the frenulum. “Just a second, love. I’ve got you.”

With that, John shimmied onto his stomach, his lips poised mere centimeters from Sherlock’s glans. But, he still didn’t touch, didn’t lick, didn’t suck. John squeezed lube onto his fingers, methodically coating one--or more, Sherlock couldn’t get a good view--as Sherlock watched a bead of precome well at the tip of his cock. John’s mouth was so close. If he would just lean up a bit and lick the bead away.

_Come on, John. Quit what you’re doing and lick me for God’s sake._

Perhaps John read Sherlock’s mind--or perhaps Sherlock’s heels digging into his arse had something to do with it--but John did just that, flicking the precome into his mouth with just the tip of his tongue. It wasn’t quite what Sherlock had in mind, but it made him groan and drop his head to the mattress all the same.

His eyes fell closed as John urged his thighs up and placed the arches of his feet on John’s shoulders. Sherlock’s knees fell open, and a cool, slick finger made him gasp.

“Is this still what you want?” John asked.

Sherlock growled, fisting his fingers once again in his hair. “For God’s sake, John, if you don’t do something soon, I’m going to lose my mi--”

Sherlock’s rant broke into a long, low moan as John both slid a slick finger into Sherlock and took Sherlock’s cock in his mouth. The finger could barely be called an intrusion, and John’s mouth was doing little but holding Sherlock’s glans against John’s soft palate, but those points of contact lit a spark in Sherlock’s groin. And the next move brought it to a blaze.

John crooked his finger, the tip sliding along Sherlock’s prostate, and took the whole of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth before slowly sliding up, dragging his tongue against the underside. Sherlock could swear that he felt every individual taste bud as that tongue made its interminable trip. John slid down again, with another crook of his finger, and Sherlock was sure it would all be over far too soon if John didn’t stop. It couldn’t end now. John hadn’t even gotten his cock into Sherlock, and that was simply unacceptable.

Sherlock’s voice came out hoarse. He could barely articulate the single syllable he was trying to say. His arms and legs flailed and scrabbled. He panted and groaned, gripping the sheets, the headboard, John’s hair, until finally he could get it out.

“Stop.”

John flew up into a kneel, knocking Sherlock’s feet from his shoulders, which tumbled down like an avalanche. “Oh, God. Sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock panted, groping at the bedside table. “Fine, just...” _Where was the damn thing._

Finally, Sherlock’s fingers found their prize, and they gripped onto it like a lifeline, pressing it into John’s palm.

John furrowed his brows at the foil packet. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock huffed. His extreme impatience was the only thing that stopped him from rolling his eyes. “Put the condom on your prick, and put your prick up my arse.”

“Did you not like what I was doing?”

God, Sherlock could scream. “I liked it far too much.” He shimmied down until his arse could rest on John’s thighs. “Now fuck me.”

John stared at the packet for another second or two before he seemed to decide that Sherlock had a point. With a crooked nod, he ripped it open.

Sherlock watched as John rolled the condom on, but as John flipped open the cap on the lube, Sherlock shot up, sliding down John's thighs in his haste. He snatched the bottle of slick from John's surprised hand and squeezed some into his palm.

“Don't trust me to do it myself?” John asked, crooking an eyebrow.

A smile danced across Sherlock's lips, and he peered at John through his lashes. “I just couldn't wait to get my hands on you.”

Sherlock wrapped his slippery palm around John’s cock, covering John’s gasp with his lips as John's hips kicked forward into his grip. John undulated. His hands skimmed their way up Sherlock's arms, over his shoulders, and up his neck before settling on his jaw. John's index fingers stroked down Sherlock's earlobes, raising goosebumps on the back of his neck that raced up his scalp.

John's cock pulsed in Sherlock's hand, pressing up against his grip, and they both groaned. God, how that would have felt inside him. He needed it now. He ached for it. He wanted to be connected at every possible point.

Grabbing John's shoulder in one hand and his hip in the other, Sherlock pulled John down on top of him. He kept their mouths together, thrilling as John's cock skimmed over his cleft. But, when John's weight settled on top of him, what was otherwise perfect--their bodies nestled together with Sherlock's thighs gripping John’s waist--was ruined as Sherlock settled back. John's cock was sliding between Sherlock's cheeks, teasing over his hole, and each time the sensation made Sherlock's hips cant, his own cock rubbed against John's stomach. It was perfect. It was wonderful, but their mouths had to break apart.

Sherlock growled, his mouth seeking John’s even as John sat up to align himself. “Couldn't you have been taller?”

John burst into a giggle, quiet and high pitched like air forced through a space too small for the volume. Somehow, even through the giggles, he was still ready to push in, guiding his cock over Sherlock's entrance, testing the give. It was such a delicious tease, and John’s smiling face only served to make it better.

Sherlock’s fingertips skated up and down the backs of his own thighs, and goosepimples raised on his skin. His skin felt alive, buzzing like a beehive from head to toe. John’s hand on his hip anchored him, and it wasn’t until then that he realized just how much he had been squirming. But how could he help it? All he wanted was for John to be in him, for John’s body to envelop his, but John was staunch on his haunches. The hand not on Sherlock’s hip was on John’s cock, guiding it up and down, sliding over and pushing against the place Sherlock wanted it without ever sliding in. Sherlock felt he was about to burst into flame like a phoenix, instantly reduced to ashes.

Sherlock curled his body until he could reach past his own arse to John’s, grabbing it with as much force as he could muster. 

“Come on, John,” he huffed, or perhaps growled. The sounds coming from his mouth were hoarse, gruff, unrecognizable. God. When was the last time he was in this state? Had he ever been?

Finally-- _finally_ \--John’s cock slid past the paltry bit of resistance that Sherlock’s body put up. For once, Sherlock was thankful for the discomfort of penetration. It was enough to keep him grounded instead of shooting off like a firework. It was enough to make him ache for more.

He pulled on John’s hips for as long as he could until sensation overwhelmed him, and he growled, fisting his hands in his hair. John moved slowly, inexorably, filling him, stretching him until…

“Oh, God. There it is.” Sherlock’s pelvic floor muscles contracted, forcing him into a curl as the first throb of deep, intense pleasure rocked through him. John’s hips thrust, and he cried out, collapsing onto Sherlock.

If Sherlock were in a fitter state, he might have preened. This was exactly what Sherlock wanted: John’s cock pressing just right against his prostate, John’s body draped over his, and if he lifted his head just a bit, their mouths were ripe for kissing. But, his body wouldn’t allow him to preen. They were stuck in a feedback loop. They struggled to stay still, afraid to move too much as each tiny move sent sharp jolts of pleasure searing through their bodies. It was like trying to eat a cookie straight from the oven. If they let themselves go, the pleasure would burn right through them, and they would crumble.

They rocked together, movements small and careful, and John’s name escaped Sherlock’s mouth like a plea. But, if John had asked, Sherlock would have no answer to what he was pleading for.

“Scott,” John said, sounding strained and reverent. He dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder. “Oh God, you feel so good.”

Once again, Sherlock should have been preening. He should have been soaking in the compliment like sunshine. Instead, the wrong name grated on his ear, and his body tensed, his thighs squeezing around John’s waist.

“Sherlock.”

John’s head popped up, a furrow appearing between his brows. “What?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he choked out. “That’s my real name.”

The smile appeared in John’s eyes before his mouth followed suit, and as he pressed his smile to Sherlock’s mouth, a giggle bubbled into it.

Sherlock winced. “Why are you laughing?”

John pressed another smacking kiss to Sherlock’s mouth, pushing the curls from his forehead. “If you had told me that name when we first met, I would’ve thought you were lying.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, unsure whether to watch John’s reaction or spare himself. “And now?”

John pressed his palm to Sherlock’s cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Thank you for telling me. It suits you.”

Sherlock pushed up on his elbows to meet John’s mouth with his own, urging it open with his tongue. John acquiesced with a groan, his hips surging forward and knocking the breath from Sherlock’s lungs. He fell back as if his body were conserving the momentum of the sheer force of his breath. His back arched, his fingers digging into John’s arse as his vision blurred in a haze of arousal.

“Fuck me,” Sherlock urged, his body curling like a cashew to reach John’s panting mouth, his heels pushing John’s arse, propelling John’s hips.

“Sherlock,” John huffed. He gave into the command of Sherlock’s body, thrusting hard as he dropped to his elbows, wrapping his forearms around Sherlock’s shoulders. Their mouths didn’t part, but it couldn’t be called kissing. They breathed into each other’s mouths, and Sherlock went light-headed with the increased carbon dioxide. It was delicious, encouraging his body to the edge. The head of John’s cock was punishing against his prostate, his balls slapping against John’s lower abdomen, his cock sliding against John’s stomach. He hadn’t come untouched since his time at university, but if it was going to happen, this was the time.

“John.” The name escaped Sherlock’s lips like a puff of smoke. “I’m close.”

John’s tongue dipped into Sherlock’s mouth on a groan, and his hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cock. “Come for me.”

Sherlock cried out into John’s mouth, and his body went stiff. The orgasm burnt through him like a firework fountain, dazzling and consuming. As he came down, he felt more exposed and vulnerable than ever in his life, every bit of facade blown away like dust. Instead of persona wrapped around him, there was John, holding him together as their bodies slowly returned to status quo.

John had been incredible. Sherlock couldn’t pinpoint a moment since the dance club that he hadn’t been. John had overwhelmed him with incredible, especially with the way he handled Moriarty. But, that just put into focus why they could never work. Spending time with Sherlock put John in danger. He couldn’t keep John, no matter how much he wanted to. For the first time in his life, he had someone he wanted to keep, and for the first time in his life, he had someone he cared for too much to keep. He trembled with it.

John, still wrapped around Sherlock and vice versa, pulled the covers over them. “Are you cold?”

Rather than broach the subject, Sherlock nodded, grunting in the affirmative, and John rubbed his arms. Sighing, Sherlock closed his eyes and let the caress wash over him. Tomorrow was a different story, but for tonight, he could still let himself pretend.


	19. No, Edward is definitely not with me.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, the bed was empty. He was still nude, having preferred the night before to keep their skin-to-skin contact for as long as possible, but in that moment of realization that he was alone in the bed, he felt profoundly naked. He knew intellectually that this wasn’t the moment he discovered he was abandoned after a night of passion, but no one told his body that. The panic and hurt rose unbidden in his throat until he heard the rustle of newspaper from the sitting room.

He breathed a sigh of relief and metaphorically kicked himself for both the panic and the relief. Then, he kicked off the covers, fetching a dressing gown from the bathroom before joining John at the dining table.

“Good morning,” John said, half-standing to lean over the table for a kiss.

Sherlock allowed it. “Morning.”

“Sleep well?”

Sherlock nodded, grabbing a croissant from a pile of pastries.

“Can I talk to you about something?”

Sherlock set the croissant on a plate, nodding as he wiped his hands on the dressing gown.

“I have to go back to London tomorrow, but I’m hoping we can see each other again.”

Sherlock chose the kindest portion of the truth. “I’d like that.”

John’s smile was luminous. “Well, now I have a reason to hope this deal goes through.”

Sherlock blanched. “Don’t do that for me.”

“Why not? The only other consideration is Harry, and who gives a toss about her?” John’s grin was flirty, playing the statement off as a joke, but Sherlock could feel the sharp point of the jab.

“Then don’t do it.”

“Sherlock…”

John was probably about to say something sentimental and romantic, so thank goodness that his phone chose that moment to ring.

He peered at the caller ID, brows furrowed. “It’s Harry. She won’t stop calling if I don’t answer.”

Sherlock nodded. “By all means.”

He didn’t want to hear the end of John’s sentiment anyway, so he went to the bedroom, gathered up a change of clothes and continued to the bathroom. He shed the dressing gown and started the water, turning John’s voice into something out of _Peanuts_. His voice rose and fell like a wave, frustration to ire to resignation.

By the time the basin was half full, John had appeared in the doorway to the bathroom, hanging up the phone with an emphatic tap. He blew out a long breath through his mouth, his cheeks puffing as he stared at the screen.

Dropping the phone to his side, John said, “All right?”

Sherlock nodded, humming in the affirmative, but his brows were furrowed. John clearly had unpleasant news. If the noise from the phone call hadn’t tipped him off, John’s defeated posture would have been a dead giveaway.

“I have to go out for a bit.”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked.

“No.” John stepped back into the bedroom, tossing the phone on the bed before crossing to the wardrobe.

Sherlock followed to the doorway, not quite believing him.

John pulled out a shirt and threw it over his shoulders. “The Dimmocks want to meet. Apparently, they’re with Harry as we speak, ready to sign the contracts, but they can’t do it without me there.”

Sherlock scoffed. “That’s a bit of a turn-about.”

John finished up the buttons on his shirt and started on the cuffs. “I know. They must have met with their accountant last night.”

“Hurry up and sell before the buyer figures out it’s not worth as much as he’s paying.”

John laughed a single syllable, throwing on a pair of trousers. “Right.” He paused, plackets loose by his hips, his gaze raking up Sherlock’s body from his toes to his hairline. “You’re distracting like that.”

Sherlock looked down to his toes, watching them wriggle. “Oh, am I, now?”

John smiled, tucking in the tails of his shirt and zipping his trousers. “You know you are.”

Sherlock peered up at John through his lashes, his own wicked smile playing on his features. He shrugged.

With a sound like a laughing lion, John crossed the room. He slipped his hand along Sherlock’s waist, settling at his side as he swooped in for a kiss. “I love it.”

Sherlock drew John’s bottom lip into his mouth, giving it a little nibble before allowing it to escape. “Care for some more?”

“Oh God, yes,” John rasped, curling his free hand into Sherlock’s hair and pulling him down to John’s mouth. The kiss was feral, intense, but too soon John was pulling back, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “When I get back, yeah?”

“I don’t need long.”

John groaned--half desire and half whinging--and wrenched himself away from Sherlock. He grabbed a pair of socks from the wardrobe and sat at the edge of the bed to put them on. “I’ll be back soon. Either I’ll sign the contracts or tell them to go fuck themselves. Either way, it shouldn’t take long.”

Sherlock backed into the bathroom, shutting off the water to the tub. “You still haven’t decided?” he called towards the bedroom.

A moment later, John entered, shoes and jacket on, tie draped over the back of his neck. “I have until the moment pen hits paper to make up my mind.” 

He kissed Sherlock once more, his hand trailing down Sherlock’s arm until their fingers intertwined. With a squeeze, he let go, sauntering backwards towards the door.

“Enjoy your bath,” John said. “Keep it warm for me?”

Sherlock grunted a laugh, his head bobbing in a non-committal gesture that may have seemed to be a yes to the untrained eye.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’d like to finish our conversation.”

“Certainly.”

Sherlock listened for the sound of the front door closing before slipping into the hot water. His skin prickled from the heat, flushing and beading with sweat not long after he submerged. Draping his arms over the side and resting his head on the edge, Sherlock filed away the past week into his mind palace. He still couldn’t decide whether these were memories he’d prefer to keep or discard, but after a few minutes of sorting, he found himself attaching the suite to his dorm room at university.

There was a room he would not soon erase, full of fond but rarely visited memories. Perhaps that would be the best place to keep John--next to chemistry and Victor and cocaine. All had their unique reasons to be never forgotten and never remembered.

He should leave now, while he had the chance. It would only be more difficult to leave once John got back, but it was for the best. He couldn’t risk John being put in the line of fire again.

So, with a sigh, he hauled himself from the now-lukewarm bath. He stared at the shopping bags and pile of dirty clothes, his own buried somewhere in the middle. He might as well take it with him. It wasn’t as if John would be able to return them. It certainly had nothing to do with sentiment. Besides, if he had nice clothes in a new place, it would be easier to start himself higher on the ladder, maybe even quit sex work. He had to admit that it didn’t quite have the appeal it used to.

After throwing on something almost at random--jeans and a plain t-shirt--Sherlock stuffed the remaining clean clothes into the largest of the shopping bags. The dirty clothes he threw into a pillowcase, and after throwing on his leather jacket, he carried the lot to the door.

As he reached for the door knob, though, he paused, his hand hovering over it. _Fucking sentiment._ He couldn’t just leave. He couldn’t let John come back to an empty suite with no idea where Sherlock went, not after last night.

He dropped the bags by the door and went back to the bedroom to search for paper and a pen. Pulling a branded pad and cheap ball point from the top drawer of the room’s desk, he sat to write.

_Dear John,_

He paused, pen poised above the paper. What was he supposed to write? By the time you read this, I’ll be gone? I love you, but it could never work? I’m sorry? He wasn’t adept at having feelings like this, let alone putting them into words, but he still couldn’t bring himself to leave without writing something.

He stared at the blank page until it formed an after image, leaving a dark rectangle in his vision every time he blinked, and as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, someone banged at the door.

He jumped, dropping the pen to the floor as the chair scraped behind him. His heart kicked in his chest. It couldn’t be Moriarty, could it? Surely Detective Baynes would have warned him.

Sherlock stood there like a meerkat, staring in the direction of the door as if he could see through it if only he tried hard enough. Whoever was behind the door banged again, which was apparently enough to break the spell. Anger surged in Sherlock’s chest, and he barged over to the door. Who the fuck was disturbing him now of all times?

Checking the peephole, he huffed, and threw open the door. “What do you want?”

Harry’s whole face pursed. “Where’s my brother?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows pulled together for just a moment before his more general masque of anger returned. “I thought he was with you.”

“No,” she laughed, pushing past Sherlock. “He’s not. Not anymore, apparently.”

She kicked off her high heels, and they tumbled and thumped against the legs of the lounger. Shoving the door closed behind him, Sherlock followed as Harry ducked behind the bar. The sounds of tinkling glass floated over it, and Sherlock leaned over the top, watching Harry dig in the mini bar and set tiny bottles of liquor on the bartop.

Leaving the refrigerator open, she popped up, barreling into the kitchen. “Want a drink?” she called behind her.

“No. How did you get up here?”

“The receptionist let me up. Unlike some people, I belong here.” She came out with two glasses anyway, plopping them on the bartop with far too much force. Wrenching off the top of one of the bottles, she asked, “Do you know what my brother did today?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She scoffed. “Really. I find that hard to believe.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, anger spiking in chest. “And why would that be?”

“Because why else would he throw away this deal. Do you know what else he did?” She slammed back her first drink and opened another.

“No.”

“He told off Doctor Dimmock,” she said as her next drink glugged into the glass. “Said if he had to deal with men like him, he’d rather quit. Can you believe that?”

Even through the anger, a smile threatened to quirk Sherlock’s mouth. “Yes, I can.”

Harry paused in her pour, staring up at him while her head tilted towards the glass, her brow as severe as a bowie knife. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock stood tall, staring down his nose into Harry’s eyes. “You heard me.”

“You have a lot of nerve.” She stalked her way around the bar, glass in hand, doing her best to tower over Sherlock while being eight inches shorter than him. “You ruin my career and John’s career and you have the audacity to be glib about it?”

“I did no such thing.”

“Oh, really. Because as far as I can see, he’s a different person since he met you.” She sneered. “A fucking whore.”

Sherlock leaned into her space, his fingers twitching at his sides. “Don’t call me that.”

She gulped her drink, slamming it on the bartop. “What are you gonna do about it, whore?”

He wanted to do something. God, he wanted to punch her. He wanted to eviscerate her. He wanted to destroy her with a deduction about her drinking or her marriage, but then, he already did that.

Instead, his eye twitched, and his mouth threatened to form into a pout. Words pushed at the back of his throat, and he didn’t know why they wouldn’t come out. No, he did know. It was sentiment, and it was stupid.

Harry smiled. “I’ll just wait for him here, then. Shall I?”

Without waiting for an answer, she plopped onto the sofa, propping her bare feet on the coffee table. She folded her hands behind her head, her face full of tipsy glee. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Ridiculous. She felt triumphant because she got away with calling him a whore. Congratulations to her.

Sherlock huffed and walked towards the bedroom. Fuck all this. He’d just write his letter, take his stuff, and go. He wasn’t going to deal with this sibling rivalry shit. He’d had enough of that for several lifetimes.

Harry shot up from her seat. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Sherlock stopped, turning towards her. “Excuse me?”

She tramped across the room, hitting the corner of the dining table with her hip. “I’m not done with you.”

“What more could you have to say?” He turned to walk away.

Harry caught him by the elbow, and as he looked down at it, pain bloomed on his cheekbone. He stumbled back, blinking at Harry. With a smirk, she licked her thumb and rubbed it against the top of the diamond on her wedding ring.

Sherlock touched his cheek, the fingers coming away red. The bleeding wasn’t bad, but he would certainly have a black eye. He blinked at his fingers. She threw a better punch than Moriarty, he had to give her that. He just had to figure out how likely John was to believe that Harry drew first blood.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my betas, monikakrasnorada and iamjohnlocked4life, and many thanks for the reads, kudos, and comments. Sorry for the slow update schedule, but we're almost there. Only 2 chapters to go!


	20. It's the kill you love, not me.

As John hit the button for the penthouse, he dropped his briefcase on the lift floor and slid his key through the reader. He felt high up in the clouds and six feet underground at the same time. Telling off Dimmock had been one of the more satisfying things he’d done in his lifetime, but the consequences could be catastrophic. It would certainly hurt his business, but that wasn’t really his worry. 

The problem was Harry. She was angry to say the very least, and it wasn’t likely to blow over. Maybe it was for the best. He could sell his shares and maybe figure out what he really wanted to do with his life.

The lift door dinged, and John picked up his briefcase, tapping the door key against his thigh. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth like Mrs. Darling’s secret kiss. He actually felt excited to tell Sherlock what he did, but as he slipped his card into the reader, he paused. He heard voices, and it sounded like one of them said something like, “I’m not done with you.”

John’s brows pulled down, and he flinched. What was going on? Was Moriarty back? Ripping the card from the reader, he threw the door open to see Harry standing across from Sherlock. She was looking down at her wedding ring, rubbing at it. She looked smug, self-satisfied, and John cocked his head. It was an odd sight to come home to. What was she doing there? What were she and Sherlock talking about? And what was the deal with the ring?

John looked at Sherlock in hopes of some sort of explanation, and his face dropped. A cut approximately a centimeter long slashed over Sherlock’s cheekbone like a proofreader’s mark, and for a moment, John was reminded of Sherlock’s writing on the now-useless contracts. He dropped the briefcase again, but this time, he didn’t feel nervous or gratified.

His vision tunneled, centering on Harry’s ring, on her red knuckles. His fists clenched at his side, and his mouth twitched into a rictus grin.

“Just what,” John said, his voice quiet and dangerous. “Is going on here?”

“Scott and I were just having a chat.” Harry smiled a little too slowly.

“No.” John pushed the statement aside. “No. Tell me what’s really going on here. I want to hear you say it.”

Harry pushed past Sherlock, bumping his shoulder on the way. Her gait was heavy, determined, and she didn’t let the dining chair that caught in her legs stop her.

“Your sister was just telling me--”

Harry spun, pointing at Sherlock. “You stay out of this.”

“No,” John retorted, his voicing growing gruff with the attempt to keep it down. “He’s obviously a part of this if you felt the need to come here and assault him.”

Harry spun back on John, her face like a Munch painting. “This is between you and me, John, no matter what this-- this--”

“This what?” Sherlock interjected.

“This whore,” Harry spat, pushing her hand behind her. “No matter what spell he has you under, it’s not worth throwing away both our careers.”

“Spell? Throwing away?” John scoffed. “My decisions are my own, and it’s hardly thrown away. You could live comfortably for the rest of your life without earning another dollar, and since when does that give you a right to barge into my private space and punch someone?”

“That wasn’t my intent when I came up here.”

“So, what? You were gesticulating wildly and he just happened to get in the way?” John swept his arm across his body, and when Harry opened her mouth to speak, he held up his hand. The other clenched at his side, itching for action, as he stretched his neck.“Stop. Just leave. My new lawyer will call you soon about selling my shares. Hm?”

Harry’s jaw dropped, and incredulous guffaw bursting from her mouth as she glanced between John and Sherlock. “We’re family, John, and you’re choosing this rentboy over me?”

“Yes.” John’s gaze swiveled to Harry’s eyes, and he gave one curt nod. “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

Harry’s face closed in on itself, forming a pinprick of rage that exploded out like a broken pressure cooker. With one primal shout, she slapped John across the face and stormed out.

John palpated his cheek, it was warm, a bit tender, but it didn’t seem likely to bruise. At the sound of a door slamming, he jumped.

“A bit of a temper on that one,” John said, dropping his hand to his side.

Sherlock’s hand slowly released the back of a dining chair. “So I gathered.”

John glanced at the front door. That was it, he supposed. He didn’t feel as sad or angry as he might have expected. Well, not about that. About Sherlock, on the other hand.

“Here.” John nodded towards the kitchen. “Let me take care of that cut for you.”

“Really, John, it’s nothing. It’s hardly necessary to--”

“Nonsense. Doctor’s orders.” John circled around the bar into the kitchen. “Come on.”

***

“This will probably bruise,” John said as he sat on the coffee table, dabbing antibiotic ointment on Sherlock’s cut. “We should put some ice on it.”

“In a towel this time?” A smile crooked Sherlock’s features.

John dropped the Q-Tip with the ointment on the table and picked up a plaster, his own smile tugging at his features like a persistent toddler at the skirt of his mother. 

“In a towel this time.” John stood, smoothing down the front of his trousers. “Would you grab a flannel from the bathroom? I’ll get the ice.”

“Of course.” Sherlock stood, reducing the distance between them to nil. John breathed in, smelling rose oil and sandalwood, the odors of the hotel’s bath products, and he wondered what Sherlock smelled like in his everyday life. There was something underneath, something masculine and delicate, that couldn’t quite make it’s way through the other scents, and John wanted to press his nose to Sherlock’s neck, imbibe him through smell and taste. They seemed to be caught in each other’s orbit, swaying in time with each other. John tipped his chin.

But then, Sherlock sidestepped, and with one slide of long limbs, he was gone, walking briskly towards the bathroom. John shook off the spell like a layer of pollen, rolling his shoulders back as he stretched his chest and neck, and went to the kitchen.

As John was pulling the tray from the ice maker in the freezer, Sherlock reappeared with the flannel in hand. John dropped a few cubes in it and gathered the ends into a bundle.

Placing the flannel against Sherlock’s cheek, John felt a surge of melancholy. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

“No.” Sherlock rolled his eyes with a tiny shake of the head. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, but I could have prevented it.”

“You’d go into business with someone you hate just so I wouldn’t get punched in the face? You’d be overwhelmed with idiots if you did that.”

“I never said I hated him.” At Sherlock’s raised eyebrow, John amended, “Well, not exactly, but I’m well acquainted with keeping personal and business matters separate.”

“Right.” Sherlock nodded, his eyes downcast, and his bottom lip disappeared into his mouth for just a moment before he continued, “Why did you do it then?”

“Would you believe me if I said I’m bored?”

“Yes. But you’ve been bored for a long time.”

“Jesus,” John gusted. “How do you do that?”

Sherlock smirked. “So I’m right.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“So why now?”

“Well.” John stepped back, letting Sherlock take over the flannel. He leaned against the counter and blew out a long puff of air. “I guess one could say that you had something to do with it.”

“John, if you’ve done this for me, I--”

“No.” John held up a hand. He swallowed, pressing his hand forward just a bit more. “No. That’s not what I mean. I did it for me. It’s just that… I’d be lying if I said you had nothing to do with it.”

Sherlock’s brows seemed to undulate as they furrowed in momentary confusion. “Why?”

“Christ, Sherlock.” John stroked Sherlock’s unmarred cheek. “Do you really not know?”

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed, his lips pressing tight together, and John’s gaze darted between them before returning to Sherlock’s eyes.

“You’ve changed things.” With that, John nudged Sherlock’s nose with his own. He let his mouth ghost over Sherlock’s, taking in his hot breath, the buzzing static between them. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

Finally, John tilted his chin upwards to capture Sherlock’s mouth, but Sherlock stepped back, ducking his head and acting as if there was something very important on his fingernails. John ducked, his eyebrows rising in question as he attempted to catch Sherlock’s eyes.

Dropping the flannel on the counter behind John, Sherlock turned away. “I should leave.”

John winced as if his nose had touched an open flame. “What?”

“You can’t afford to be with--”

“If this is about what that prick said last night, I don’t care. I don’t give a shit what people think about me.”

“Do you think I didn’t figure that out?” Sherlock scoffed.

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I put you in danger. If I hadn’t cared about you, Moriarty never would have come after you.”

John boggled. “Do you really think that matters to me?”

“Damn it, John. I’m trying to protect you.”

“For fuck’s sake. I invaded a country. Do you really think I can’t handle that punk?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“Well, you kind of forced my hand because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Looking down at his clenched hands, he said, “I’m better off alone. Alone protects me. Alone protects you.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Sherlock’s mouth formed a momentary pout. “Regardless. It’s time for me to leave town. If Moriarty can’t get to me, he can’t get to you.”

Sherlock swallowed, his expression turning hard as stone before he crossed to the entryway and picked up a large shopping bag. He slung a stuffed pillowcase over his shoulder.

“You’re wrong,” John said as Sherlock reached the door. “We could protect each other.”

Sherlock paused with his hand on the doorknob. John’s heart leapt in his chest, urging him forward, urging him to chase after Sherlock, but he was frozen in place. He could only clench his fists at his side as he watched Sherlock turn the knob and open the door.

“Goodbye, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks as always to my betas, iamjohnlocked4life & monikakrasnorada.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and sorry.


	21. She rescued him right back

John sat up in bed, rolling tension from his neck and shoulders. It was early, the sun serving only to make the sky a slightly less inky shade of grey. He didn’t have anywhere to be for hours yet, but he’d given up on sleep. Nothing about this trip had gone the way he’d planned, which would have been fine--brilliant, in fact--if the part that made it worthwhile hadn’t walked out the day before. So now he was left with no job, no sister, and ten thousand dollars he didn’t know how to explain to British customs.

True, the job and the sister he could no longer stand, but they would have been better than nothing. Right?

Blowing air through his cheeks, John peered over at the messy rectangle of carpeting that was once Sherlock’s home base. Empty bags and shreds of tissue paper littered the floor like shrapnel. How appropriate.

With a mirthless guffaw, John rubbed his hands over his face and forced himself up out of bed and into the bathroom for a shower. So he’d been dumped. It wasn’t like it hadn’t happened before. Several times. He always found someone new. There was no use getting maudlin about it, even if Sherlock’s purported reasons for leaving were complete rubbish. He left to protect John? What utter shit.

After standing stock still under the spray for longer than he would have been willing to admit, John shook off his thoughts. He finished washing, dressed, and packed before calling for a bellhop. As he waited, he stepped out to the balcony. His hands were restless, and he couldn’t stop himself from tapping the edge of his keycard against his knuckles like a snare drum.

The morning was cool enough to make John glad he chose to put on his coat, a bit of morning haze clinging to the air. This high up and surrounded by so many potted plants, the air was fresh, but when John took a deep breath, he couldn’t avoid the soupcon of stale cigarette smoke. A chuckle bubbled up his throat like a Fizzy Lifting Drink as he spotted a smattering of snuffed butts in the soil of one of the plants. He picked up one and held it in the air, watching it twirl in his fingers.

After three raps, a voice called from behind John. “Sir?”

Jumping, John stuffed the butt back into the soil and spun around to see the bellhop in the doorway to the room. “Yes,” he said, walking into the room and shutting the balcony door behind him. “They’re just there. Thank you.”

As the bellhop loaded the luggage cart and left for the lift, John did one last lap around the room to check for anything he might have left behind. When he couldn’t find anything, even after sorting through the bags and paper, he found himself feeling disappointed, the reason for which he couldn’t quite pinpoint. Did he regret that he wouldn’t have a memento? Did he wish he would find something important that would make it worthwhile to track Sherlock down? Or maybe he just wanted to find something Sherlock would need, make it unavoidable for Sherlock to see him one last time.

He pulled out his phone, contemplating not for the first time whether or not to text Sherlock, only to shove it back into his pocket. He’d already tried that last night to no avail. He couldn’t even get in touch with Sherlock to give him his money. Grabbing his briefcase, John made sure he had his room key and passport, and he left.

***

“Checking out. John Watson.” John said, clicking his key to the cool counter.

“Of course, sir.” The receptionist took the card and squinted at the computer screen. “Give me just a moment to print your receipt.”

The receptionist rushed off to stand by the printer, and as John watched the paper spool from it, a voice startled him.

“It’s been a pleasure, Doctor Watson. I do hope we’ll be seeing you again.” Lestrade held out his hand, and John took it.

“Thank you.”

“I was sorry to see that your guest left early. Will he not be returning to London with you?”

John laughed, and it sound harsh even to his own ears. “No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like me to have the hotel shuttle driver take you to the airport?”

The receptionist slid the receipt across the counter, and as John signed, he said, “No, thank you. I have my own way.”

“You know, the driver on duty took your friend home last night.”

John had begun to hand the receipt back to the receptionist, but his hand froze in mid-air. A surge of jealousy reared its ugly green head as the worst possible interpretation of that sentence brought unwelcome images into his mind. He gripped the pen tight and couldn’t seem to let go even when the receptionist held out a shaky hand for it. Took him home? What the…

Oh, he could have kicked himself. He dropped the pen, the green flowing in his veins turning bright red along with his face.

John cleared his throat, forcing a passive smile on his face. “Did he?”

Lestrade smiled in return, a knowing glint in his eye. “Shall I have him bring the car around?”

John shifted back on his feet, leaning on the heel of his hand as he chewed on his bottom lip. “Yeah. All right.”

***

John watched out the window as the limo pulled up to a dilapidated building. It was a squat block of flats, dingy windows forming a grid on all sides. The fire escapes looked like they might crumble if someone tried to use them, and it hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years.

It wasn’t right that someone of Sherlock’s talents should live here. He shouldn’t be surrounded by squalor, operating under the constant threat of violence. Just the sight of the place made John’s throat close up.

Considering where he’d met Sherlock, he didn’t know why he wouldn’t have expected something like this, but something about the preceding week had made that night seem distant, like it happened to different people. The Sherlock he knew, the brilliant man who’d changed his life, had nothing to do with the man who lived here. It made no sense.

Still, John opened the car door and stepped out, nonchalantly assuring that the bank envelope with Sherlock’s money was still safely tucked into his jacket. The stares of passersby were palpable on John’s skin, making the hairs bristle on the back of his neck. He paused just inside the front of the door, stopping the first person to walk by.

“Pardon me. Do you know which apartment Scott lives in?”

The man sneered, looking John up and down. “Going slumming, are we?”

John blinked, the corners of his mouth pulling up. “What was that?”

The man scoffed. “Apartment 2B. And tell him”--he held his index finger and thumb up to John’s face--”I’m this close to locking them out and selling their stuff on eBay. Two months rent they owe me. And I’m not taking trade!”

John stepped back, nodding as he made his way up the stairs. Halfway up, he peered behind him to see the man--the landlord, John supposed--staring after him. John had never had so many eyes on him in such a short span of time in his entire life, unless one counted childhood band concerts.

When he reached the top, John nearly ran into another man, a gym rat in jeans and what could only be described as half a singlet. The gym rat stepped aside, gesturing for John to pass in a gesture far too formal for the occasion.

“Sire,” he said.

John walked past, knocking on the door to Sherlock’s supposed flat.

“A bit fancy for the fag, aren’t ya?”

John’s jaw clenched, his vision flaring, and he rolled his neck to ease some of the tension from it. Not enough, though, because he couldn’t stop himself from pivoting on his heel and leveling the prick with an icy stare. “What was that?”

“Which one you here for? The crack head or the freak?”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No.” The prick grinned. “I kiss yours, though.”

John may as well have had horns at the moment because his nostrils flared. He saw red, and pushed off to charge, but something caught the neck of his jacket and yanked him backwards. He stumbled through the door, which slammed behind him as he spun.

Sherlock caught him by the shoulders. His expression was stern. “John. What are you doing here?”

“The, um”--John swallowed, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket--“hotel shuttle driver brought me.”

“I gathered that. Why are you here?”

“Look,” John said, peering at Sherlock without lifting his face. “I heard what you said, but you forgot your money.”

John held out the envelope, and Sherlock took it, lifting the flap and thumbing through the bills. “This is more than we agreed upon.”

“Isn’t tipping the done thing around here? Something about all those actors and actresses trying to make a living while they wait for their big break?”

Sherlock chuckled but cut it off with a click of teeth. He pressed the envelope to John’s chest. “I don’t want it.”

Sherlock turned away, forcing John to catch the envelope before it fell to the ground. “Why not?”

Sherlock crossed to a chest of drawers, pulling out a handful of impeccably folded socks and arranging them in a suitcase lying open on one of the twin beds dominating the room. He shrugged.

“I wish you’d take it,” John said, grazing his thumb over the top seam of the envelope.

Sherlock’s gaze hit John like a bullet from a gun. “Why?”

“Well”--John dug his fingers into the back of his neck--“we had an agreement. You held up your end. I’d like to hold up mine.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

John had never had so much trouble giving someone money. “I don’t understand.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I was here to help you close a deal. The deal fell through. Therefore, I did not hold up my end of the contract.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock snapped, yanking the zip on his bag.

“No. For God’s sake.” John combed his fingers through his hair, narrowly avoiding pulling out a clump. “Is this because I have feelings for you? It can’t be the first time it’s happened. Did you reject payment from them too?”

Sherlock paused with the zip halfway closed. He swallowed. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’d rather not discuss it.” With a flourish, Sherlock finished zipping his bag and flung it. It landed beside the door.

John nodded, suppressing the tangle of anxiety furling in his chest. He tucked the envelope back into his pocket. “All right.”

They stood for too long, John staring at Sherlock as Sherlock graced him with only the barest glimpses of eye contact. John knew he should take the hint. He should have left already, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. If Sherlock told him to leave, he would, but if there was even the slightest chance…

“My bus leaves in an hour,” Sherlock said.

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock pushed back the cuticles on his thumb. “San Francisco.”

“It’s a good town. You’ll like it.”

Sherlock turned his eyes to John. “Will I? Have you been there?”

John smiled, glad to be on less stressful territory at least for a moment. “A few times, with Harry and Clara. We used go to Pride every few years, back when Clara and I were dating, and we kept going after she and Harry got together. It’s funny. We used to have to save up for it, but now that we don’t have to, we never go.”

“You’ll have the time now.”

“But no one to go with.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Are you inviting me?”

Sherlock shrugged. Given the non-committal response, John had no reason to react the way he did. But, he crossed the room all the same, pressing his palm to Sherlock’s cheek, turning Sherlock’s face towards his until their lips could meet.

Sherlock flinched at first, but before John could react--pull away or apologize--Sherlock surged forward, his own fingers digging into the back of John’s neck. John dropped his head back against those insistent hands, letting Sherlock guide it where he wanted it. His kisses were relentless, overwhelming John’s senses until even breathing required too much concentration. He swam in it, letting himself be carried away until the burning in his lungs forced them apart.

Panting, John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s chest, gripping Sherlock’s elbows to keep them tethered. “Come to London with me.”

John could feel the shift in Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed. Sherlock’s voice came out small and quiet. “No.”

John’s heart dropped straight to the soles of his feet. “Why?”

“Mycroft.”

“Who?”

Sherlock’s hands roamed John’s back. “My brother. Last I knew, he lived in London. He had a mid-level position in the government then. By now, he’s probably the Prime Minister’s puppet master.”

John chuckled. “I could move to San Francisco.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Why not? What do I have to go home to in London? An empty flat, a business I’m no longer a part of, and a sister who hates me. It’s not exactly Christmas morning. Besides, I”--John paused, searching Sherlock’s face for a reason to go on or not--”Yeah. I love you.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “True.”

“Shut up,” John managed through a laugh.

Sherlock pressed his fingers to John’s scalp, tilting his head back. “Make me.”

“Oh God, yes.” John surged up to his toes and yanked Sherlock down until their mouths crashed together, awkward and messy and wonderful.

“And. I suppose.” Sherlock murmured against John’s mouth with a shrug. “I love you, too.”

“Good.” John pecked the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “No more arguing, then.” And the other corner. “I’ll go back to London--”

Sherlock stiffened.

“--sell my shares, get my house on the market, and meet you in San Francisco. Isn’t there a song about that?”

“St. Louis.”

“Right.” Butterflies fluttered in John’s stomach, excitement and nerves fizzing like champagne. “What’s the one in San Francisco?”

“I left my heart in San Francisco.”

John grinned. “Not for long.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Here.” John took the envelope from his jacket again. “Find us a flat and get us some furniture.”

Sherlock eyed the envelope like it might poison him.

John fidgeted. “Come on. It’s the only cash I have. Don’t make me take it through customs.”

“Fine.” Sherlock snatched the envelope and buried it in his bag.

After a bit of silence, John scratched at his temple. “Can I ask just one thing?”

“No.”

John winced. “No?”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched again. “No, I don’t plan on continuing to work as a prostitute.”

“Oh? You don’t have to--”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. I’m not giving it up for you. Sex work was an interesting experiment, but it’s run its course.”

“So, what will you do?”

“I thought I might give this private investigator thing a try. Sounds interesting.”

John nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. “Right. Right. Suits you.”

Sherlock slipped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him close. “Happy?”

John smiled, mirroring Sherlock’s actions. “Quite.”

“Then kiss me, you idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks. Thanks for coming along on the ride.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to angiefsutton, iamjohnlocked4life, and monikakrasnorada for the beta.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Say You'll Stay With Me' by justacookieofacumberbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9841688) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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